Azazel's Plan B Part 2: Friends
by Eideann
Summary: With Dean safe and finally released from the hospital despite his still precarious health, the family heads for South Dakota. Dean, however, does not seem to want to fall in with Dad's plans to keep him safe, and Sam won't let their father force him into anything. A brief stop turns into an extended stay partway along their journey. Sam's dreams haven't stopped. #Winchester Life
1. Chapter 1

_Author's Note: This is, as is suggested in the title, a sequel. If you have not read the first book, a fair amount of this will not make sense to you. It is not written as a stand alone story. Also, for those of you who may not recognize it, there is a minor crossover in this story. I have not called it a crossover because the second IP is not integral to the plot, it just fleshes out the world a bit and neither I nor my beta could resist the idea once we'd discussed it. However, before reading Chapter 2, if you are not familiar with the TV show_ Saving Grace _with Holly Hunter, you might want to either watch a few episodes to familiarize yourself with it or just visit the Wikipedia page to get a feel for who is who._

 **Chapter 1**

The RV rumbled along the road, and Dean watched the world go by the window, reveling in the awareness that the world still existed outside his long isolation. After two months in small rooms and an even smaller cage, the weeks in the hospital had felt freer, but nowhere near as free as sitting beside a window bigger than he was, watching cars and houses and people and cats and dogs and cows go by in the never ending panorama that was the U.S. highway system.

The longer he gazed out the window, the further away the memory of Azazel seemed. The longer he didn't try to move with any speed or strength, the more he could forget how bad off he was.

He picked up a carrot, dipped it into the dressing, and began to crunch it down. Admittedly, he'd normally have chosen something other than rabbit food with ranch dressing for a snack, but it beat IVs and long stints without anything at all. Sammy was just going to be fussy for a while, till he got some of the freaked out of his system.

Cars, motorcycles, motor homes like this one, buses, semi-trucks . . . people going places, doing things, not controlled by demons or even medical personnel. It reminded him that life continued apace for the rest of the world. He'd have to find out what movies were out. Maybe Sammy would take him to one.

At the moment, Sammy boy was in the back of the RV, in bed, after staying up all night in the hospital to keep an eye on him. Dean took a deep breath and quelled the maniacal paranoia that started to overtake him at the realization that his little brother was out of sight. It wasn't as if he could have left the RV while it was on the highway doing fifty.

Dean wanted to say he didn't need to be babysat like that, but the fact was, if Sammy left for more than five minutes at a time, he started flipping out. It had gotten better. For one thing, he could convince himself that Sam was safe in the back of the RV, but he was nowhere near normal, yet.

He decided not to think about that, not to think about any of what had happened since September, and focused on watching the world go by.

* * *

A few hours after Sam settled in the back and presumably fell asleep, Bobby heard Dean's voice. "Hey, Bobby, awesome as it is to be back on the road . . . and awesome doesn't begin to cover it . . . ." Bobby had to crane his mirrors around wildly to see Dean's face, but he managed it.

"Yeah, kid?"

"I don't suppose we could stop, though? I'd really like to hit a rest stop."

"There's a bathroom midway back, Dean," Bobby said.

"Yeah, but somehow I don't want to try and do my business while we're bouncing along the road."

"Okay. Should be a diner or something coming up along here soon."

"Whatever," Dean said. "I just want to get out and smell real air for five minutes."

Bobby could understand that. He kept his eyes peeled, and the next thing he saw was a sign for a real, honest-to-God rest stop five miles ahead. He signaled and glanced in the back mirror to see if John had gotten it. A brief right signal told him the answer, and he turned off his own signal till they got close enough for it to make sense. He looked ahead as he pulled off the freeway. The rest stop had RV parking, but it was a fair distance away from the restrooms.

He took a deep breath and raised his voice. "Sam!"

"Let him sleep, Bobby," Dean protested, but Sam came out of the back room within a few seconds.

"What's up?"

"I'm letting you and Dean off in front of the building. He wants to use the restroom."

"He can't use that restroom!" Sam exclaimed.

Bobby blinked, pulling up in front of the restroom building and putting the parking brake on. He turned around, shaking his head. "Right. I don't know what I was thinking."

"What are you two talking about?" Dean demanded, glaring back and forth between them.

"Dean, you have open wounds," Sam said. "And your body is putting most of its energy into healing, so you're really vulnerable to germs and bacterial infections. You can't use a toilet in a rest stop. God knows how often they clean those things."

"That's nuts! This is a rental. Did you guys go over it with a bucket of bleach?"

"Actually, yes," Bobby said. He eyed his young friend sympathetically as Dean's eyes widened. "Look, we're not bouncing now, get it over with, and then you can take a walk."

Dean glowered at them both, but he got up and made his slow way into the toilet. A loud thumping at the door made Bobby start, and Sam leaned down to peer out the window. After a second, he popped the door open and John came in. Sam went out, jerking his thumb towards the restrooms. Bobby nodded at him, but then John spoke in an irritated tone. "Why are you parked here?" he asked. "And why'd you stop anyway?"

"I was being goofy, thinking Dean could use the restroom out there," Bobby said. "But he really doesn't want to use the one in here while we're moving, so I think we'll be stopping periodically."

"Bobby, we need to get to your place lickety-split. Stopping every five minutes isn't going to work."

"Don't exaggerate, John, besides, it was Dean's request."

"Dean –" John shook his head. "Bobby, we need to keep moving for Dean."

"Dean wants to get out of the RV, John," Bobby said persuasively. "He deserves that, don't you think?"

"It's not safe."

"There's three of us here to keep an eye on him, John," Bobby said. "And the RV's as protected as I can make it."

"You know, I can hear you in here," Dean called from inside the toilet. John closed his eyes, and Bobby could see he was barely controlling his emotions. The door opened and Dean emerged. Bobby could tell that he was concealing how shaky he felt, undoubtedly for his father's benefit. "And I want to feel grass under my feet and wind on my face, corny as that sounds."

"It don't sound corny to me," Bobby said.

"Where's Sammy?" Dean asked suddenly. "Did he go back and lie down or –"

"I think he went to the restroom in there," Bobby nodded towards the rest stop. "Look, John, why don't you and Dean get down, and I'll go park this thing where it belongs before someone comes and has a conniption fit."

"Not unless there's at least two of us to look after him," John said.

"That's it!" Dean announced. He slipped past them, avoiding John's reaching hands easily because John was clearly afraid to grab his son anywhere. Dean started down the steps and opened the door. Bobby had pulled right up to the curb, close as he could, so all Dean had to do was step forward. It wasn't more than an inch drop. John hurried after him, giving Bobby a death glare, and the door slammed shut behind them. Bobby got back into the driver's seat and drove over to park in the RV parking, selecting a spot where it would be easy to turn around and come back to pick them up. Sighing, Bobby shook his head. Dean was already starting to get tired of them cosseting him, but he was going to have to put up with it for a while.

Bobby made sure both doors were locked and trotted over towards the grassy area. John and Dean were over by the trees, and as Bobby crossed the parking lot, he saw Sam come out of the restroom. He started to walk towards the motor home, but then he stopped in his tracks and took a sharp left. He approached some guy with his back to Bobby and started talking, looking more than a little pissed.

Bobby picked up the pace a little, not sure what was going on, but figuring that the last thing they needed was for Sam to get into some kind of fight on the way. It seemed a little odd, though. Sam had a temper, but it usually didn't get directed at strangers. Sam was in the middle of a diatribe when Bobby came into hearing.

". . . be excused for wondering what the hell is going on with this, don't you think?" He looked up. "Bobby, hey, look who seems to be following us."

As Bobby took the final steps to join Sam and the stranger, the man turned and Bobby realized who he was. Thus far, he hadn't seen Special Agent Denson in anything but a suit and tie with a trench coat over the top. He hadn't recognized the man's rear view in jeans and a parka. "Kind of informal for official business, don't you think?" Bobby said, knitting his brows. Why the heck would the FBI be following them? It made no sense.

"I'm not on official business at the second," Denson said. "I'm on my way to –"

"South Dakota?" Sam demanded, glaring.

"Oklahoma City," Denson finished, giving Sam a benign look.

Bobby ran the maps over in his head, and he could see Sam doing the same. This was the most sensible route out of Birmingham to get to Oklahoma. "You on a different case?" Bobby asked, raising his eyebrows.

"Nope," Denson replied. "But I can't really go into detail with you, you've got to understand that."

Sam nodded. "Sure. We understand." He didn't sound like he meant it, though, and Bobby sighed. John and his younger son were more alike than either of them wanted to admit. "Come on, Bobby," Sam said, turning away.

"Your brother and your father are on the other side," Bobby said. "I'll meet you in a minute." Sam nodded again and walked away, his back stiff and angry. Bobby turned towards Denson. "What are you really doing here?" he demanded.

"Just what I told young Mr. Winchester. I'm heading in the same direction, and we happened to make the same –"

"Horseshit," Bobby interjected. "I don't believe in coincidence, and even if I did, this would be a whopper. Gimme something I can buy, or I might just call and complain of harassment. You can probably beat it, no trouble, but it won't look good at your next review."

Denson's brows went up. "I am heading to Oklahoma City," he said. "And I . . ." He trailed off. "Just a minute," he said, looking at something beyond Bobby's shoulder.

"What?" Bobby turned and saw John headed towards them at a fast walk. Neither Dean nor Sam was in sight.

"I figure I might as well tell you both at once and avoid confusion," Denson said.

"What the hell do you think you're doing, following us?" John demanded when he was still a good ten feet away. "And don't even –"

"He'd started to give me a straight answer, John," Bobby said quickly, heading off whatever John might be about to burst out with. "But he didn't want to tell it twice."

"Fine," John said. "Go ahead."

Denson smiled at them both, the practiced smile of a man who tries to keep people calm so his job stays as easy as possible. "I'm heading to Oklahoma City to continue my investigation into your son's situation," he said. "Knowing that you folks would be headed out today, I delayed my departure to coincide with yours, so I could sort of keep an eye on things."

"An eye on what things?" John growled.

"Your son's safety, for one," Denson said. "Figured I could watch for anyone suspicious following you, give you any help you might need."

"Don't see the point, really, unless you plan to follow us all the way to South Dakota," John said.

Denson shook his head. "Just as far as I can," he said. "Memphis, probably. But if you would like an escort the rest of the way, I can arrange for that."

Bobby blinked at him. "Are you serious?" he asked incredulously. Denson nodded. "Do you do this for all kidnap victims?" he asked sarcastically.

Denson shrugged ruefully. "No, but Dean isn't the typical kidnap victim, and this isn't a remotely usual case." He paused, looking irresolute. After a second during which Bobby could feel John beginning to seethe, Denson cleared his throat. "Dean isn't the only victim, he's just the only victim who's still alive," the FBI agent said, and Bobby's eyebrows went up. "This guy, this Azazel, he's clearly obsessed with Dean for whatever reason, but he's been killing . . . a lot of people."

"Son of a bitch," John growled. "Dean is going to shit kittens."

"Mr. Winchester, I know Dean hasn't indicated anything, but is there any chance he knew this man from before? That he's keeping something from you?"

John didn't respond, but there wasn't a whole lot he could say. Bobby figured he was still worrying about how Dean would react to this news. And it wasn't like they could keep it from him. It might even hit the media. Bobby shrugged. "God knows what happened," he said. "Dean could have caught this guy's attention anywhere."

"Yes, that's possible, Mr. Singer, but in my judgment, it's not likely. I don't believe in coincidences either, and the sheer number of murders that surround this kidnapping elevate it beyond the typical obsessed psychopath. There's something distinctly ritualistic about the deaths."

"How have you connected them to Dean?" Bobby asked.

"I can't really go into detail about an investigation in progress," Denson said. "Nevertheless, there are reasons why I continue to be concerned about Dean's well-being."

"Not the least of which is that he's your only lead," John said, his voice low and hard.

"I don't deny that's among the reasons," Denson said.

"How many deaths?" Bobby asked.

"I can't –"

"It's going to hit the news sooner or later, right?" Bobby pointed out. "So what's the harm?"

Denson pursed his lips, then shrugged. "We're releasing a statement to the press tomorrow," he said. "Largely pre-emptive. If we release it, we get to determine what details get out there."

"Will you be including Dean's name?" John asked.

"At this time, no, but the press will get hold of it before long," Denson said. "We'll shield him as long as we can, but it will get out."

"Damn it!" John growled. "You have no idea –" He cut himself off sharply, but Bobby knew what he was thinking. When details about the cutting and the deaths hit the media, other hunters would put two and two together. It could, especially if anything about the ritual crap and the demon name got out, put Dean in danger from other hunters. They couldn't exactly explain that to Denson, though.

"Believe me, if I could avoid it, I would," Denson said. "The minute the public hears about a serial case, we get hit by tips and pleas and offers of help. Plowing through those wastes boatloads of time."

John shook his head. "We've got to get back on the road," he said gruffly. "I assume we'll see you from time to time till we reach Memphis."

"Quite probably," Denson said. "Do you want me to arrange for further escort?"

"We'll be making at least one stop before our final destination," John said. "So I don't think that makes a lot of sense. Thanks anyway."

"Okay," Denson said. "Let me know if you change your mind."

John didn't say anything, he just glanced behind him, then strode off. Bobby looked at where he was going and saw Dean standing next to Sam and Agent Haynes. He was visibly sagging. It was time to fetch the RV. "Catch you later," Bobby said to Denson, whose gaze refocused from Dean back to Bobby. "And let me know if you decide to arrange protection even though John said no. If he catches someone following us that he doesn't know, he might overreact."

"I'll keep that in mind," Denson said, and Bobby shrugged, turning to walk swiftly back to the camper. He pulled it around again to the sidewalk and went back to unlock the door. John and Sam got Dean back inside and then John left.

"She _is_ pretty," Dean said, peering out the window as Denson and his partner walked by.

"Time for you to lie down for a while, Dean," Sam said.

"I can stay up here," Dean protested. "If I fall asleep, so what? I want to be able to see stuff, Sammy."

"There are windows in the back, Dean," Sam said.

"I'm fine right here," Dean said, planting himself firmly on the sofa. He tilted sideways, trying to lie down. Sam had to help him straighten himself out, and then he spread the blanket out over him again.

"Want another smoothie?" Sam asked.

"I'm good. Go away, Sammy. Get some sleep."

Sam deposited a water bottle in the drink holder before going back to the back. Bobby shook his head and got moving again. Ritualized murders. John was right. Dean would have a cow.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

"Dean seemed pleased enough to meet me," Melissa said. "But Sam seemed angry. You have fun talking to Winchester and Singer?"

Denson laughed, glancing at his partner's profile. "They were a bit peeved," he said. "And Dean was disappointed you didn't show yesterday because he'd heard you were pretty."

Her eyes widened and she glanced quickly at him. "Seriously?"

"Yup." Her lips compressed, and Denson repressed another laugh that wouldn't be well received. Melissa could be a bit prickly when it came to people looking at her as a woman rather than as an agent. He hoped it would pass eventually. Maybe it was time to give it a hand. He shrugged. "Why else did you think he was pleased to meet you?" he asked her. "Because he was just dying to meet another FBI agent?"

"Well, I . . . I don't know."

"So, he's happier talking to a pretty girl." Melissa pursed her lips irritably. "Use that."

"It's not very professional," she said.

"Getting your job done is the point." He shook his head. "Consider it this way, Mel, if your appearance and his reaction to it keep him calm while he talks about something this terrible, isn't that a good thing?"

"Yes, it is, but . . ." she trailed off as if not sure how to express herself. He gave her some time to find the words. Sometimes articulating ideas made them clearer, either to accept or to dispute. "It seems very manipulative to try and use my looks to influence a victim to get them to talk."

"Manipulation doesn't have to be bad, Mel," Denson said. "It's all about how you apply it. Why do you think I have you talk to children if I can, or why Jack had you talk to that rape victim?"

"Well, yeah, I get that. Children are often more comfortable with women, and rape victims . . ." She shrugged. "This just seems unfair, somehow."

"There's nothing unethical or dishonest about it, Mel. It's called psychology. You lower the barrier so the victim will feel comfortable enough to talk."

She nodded thoughtfully, and he hoped he'd won her over. In his experience that kind of prickliness never helped in the field, and it rarely helped in the office. "So, what do you think of Dean Winchester now that you've met him?"

Melissa didn't reply immediately, and he turned to see a faint flush coloring her cheeks. Repressing another unhelpful laugh, he said, "Yes, he does have enough charisma for five, doesn't he?"

Melissa laughed with mild embarrassment, another clue to her prickliness. She'd appreciated Dean personally, and she hadn't felt as if that were professional either, he suspected. "I heard the nurses call him an inveterate flirt, and now I know what they meant." She was silent for a moment. "But . . . it almost has to be a mask, doesn't it? He acted totally carefree and cheerful, and somehow I doubt that's really how he feels."

"I agree," Denson said, but he found that troublesome. If Dean kept up that much of a front around Melissa, she might not be any more successful than he'd been at getting the boy to open up. He sighed. They'd just have to play it by ear. "What do you think of the brother?"

"Sam?" She shrugged. "I only saw him during your first interview and for just a few minutes now. He seems utterly devoted to his brother." There were reservations in her tone. Denson waited, and after a moment, she grimaced. "I'm sensing some guilt from him that I'm not sure I can see a cause for."

"I got guilt, too," Denson said. "I thought it was because he wasn't there when his brother needed him."

"It's . . . it doesn't feel quite right," she said, shaking her head. "If he was the older brother, I'd go with that, but I think it's too strong for a younger brother, especially for one with that significant an age gap. Sam didn't take care of Dean, it was the other way around."

"Maybe that's the source," Denson suggested. "Maybe he feels like he should have been there because his brother always was for him."

"I don't know. Maybe. On the other hand, maybe he knows something he's not telling us."

Denson considered this for a moment, but before he could pursue the subject, his phone rang. The call came from a police department in Sioux City, Iowa. Denson flipped his phone open with alacrity. He'd been waiting for this call. "Agent Denson," he said.

"This is Detective George Shaw," the man on the other end said. "I understand you wanted to talk to me about an arrest I made more than twelve years ago. Can I ask why?"

"I've run across the family in another case, and I wanted to get more information regarding that arrest since the records are still sealed."

"Well, I pulled the file to remind myself, but once I saw the photos of the kid, I remembered everything," Shaw said, and Denson raised his eyebrows. "Not the kind of thing you forget easily, not especially when everybody is falling all over themselves to drop the charges. I almost got a black mark on account of this case, actually."

"Why?"

"Politics. A child welfare advocate got involved, and things got a little stupid. I'm sure you know how that can be."

"Well, my only information about the case comes from the younger son, Sam Winchester, and his story was a bit vague. Can you give me some detail?"

"Sure. Dispatch put out a call on a stolen car on the move about a block behind where I was parked on a side road, writing up some paperwork. Traffic wasn't heavy, so I eyeballed the car and pulled across the road to block it, sirens on. The kid stopped and actually started to back up. Another car came up behind him and that was it. He stayed in the car, leaning between the front seats to something in the back. We suspected the worst, of course and ordered him out of the car, hands visible, you know the drill."

"Right."

"He got out of the car, but his face was pale as milk. He told us that his brother had a head wound and was bleeding, and couldn't we get him to the hospital? He didn't care what we did with him, so long as his little brother got to the hospital. The other unit took little Sammy to the emergency room. He was around eight or nine, I think. I called it in, arrested Dean and took him down to the station. He told us he'd tried 911, but no one had shown up, even though the operator kept saying that they were on their way."

"Did you find out what happened with that?"

"One of our emergency operators got fired over that, actually. It was the last straw, I guess. She sent the EMTs miles in the wrong direction. Anyway, when the captain found out why Dean had stolen the car, he talked to the car's owner and convinced him not to press charges."

"And a child welfare advocate got involved? Why?"

"Well, there were no adults around, and when we called the number Dean gave us for his father, we didn't get an answer after twelve hours of calls and lots of messages, which naturally led to us calling child protective services. While we tried to reach his father, we placed Dean in the custody of a group home from which he called a family friend to come and extricate him."

"Who was the family friend?"

"Let me check . . . Robert Singer, Sioux Falls –"

"South Dakota," Denson finished for him. "Yes, I've met him."

"Ah. Well, he got there the next morning with documentation declaring him the legal guardian for both boys in the absence of their father, so we released Dean to him, but Sam stayed in the hospital for a couple of days. The blow to the head had been extremely severe, so he needed rest to let the swelling go down."

"And the father?"

"He showed up late in the evening the day after. Gotta say, I didn't think much of him. I couldn't figure out which of us he was angrier at, me for interfering with Dean, or Dean for letting the kid get hurt in the first place. CPS tried to get a straight answer from everyone involved about how long the boys had been alone, but Dean clammed up, Sam wasn't really able to be questioned, and neither of the adults was forthcoming. They were living in the kind of cheap apartments that have a high turnover rate, more like motel rooms with kitchens than anything else, so the neighbors weren't much help. My impression was that he'd been gone for several days at that point, though."

Denson nodded grimly. Nothing he'd heard so far disagreed with that impression. "Was there any effort to remove the boys from his custody?"

"There might have been, but the minute Sam was released, all four of them were in the wind. They might as well never have been there. The school told me later that they'd gotten a request for records from somewhere in Ohio."

"I see."

"Dare I ask how they are? I always wondered what happened to those kids later."

"Sam graduated from Stanford in June, and was accepted to law school there starting in the spring."

"Wow. And Dean?"

"An unemployed drifter, from all I gather," Denson said. "He's the victim in my case."

"He's . . . he's not dead, is he?" Shaw asked, sounding very dismayed by the idea.

"No, he's alive, and he'll recover, but it will take time."

"Me and the wife will keep him in our prayers, then," he said. "Him and his family. That all you needed?"

"Yeah. Thanks for being so candid."

"No problem." Denson snapped the phone shut and stared out the front window. He wasn't sure what it meant in terms of his actions, but it certainly illuminated the family a bit.

"What was that?" Melissa asked, and he relayed the conversation to her. "So, Singer's been involved with them for a long time," she observed after he was done.

"Twelve years plus," Denson said.

She nodded pensively. "So, what's his history? I know you pulled his jacket."

"Yeah," Denson said. He took a deep breath. "He killed his wife in the late 80s," he said, and Melissa whistled, her eyes widening.

"And Winchester made him his kids guardian? Does he not know?"

Denson shrugged. "I don't know, but it might not make much of a difference. It seems she had some kind of psychotic break and decided that the children in town were monsters and needed to be killed. Then she came at him with a knife and tried to kill him. It was pure self-defense. He wasn't even charged, but he wound up in a psych ward for a while anyway. Since then he's had kind of a patchy history with law enforcement. DUI, credit card fraud and – you guessed it – grave desecration."

Melissa's lips pursed. "You know what, I'm seeing a pattern here that I don't much like," she said.

"Go on." He wondered if her thinking would dovetail with his.

"Both Singer and the eldest Winchester are clearly involved in something kind of creepy. I mean, what grown man digs up graves for fun?"

"I get you," he said.

"And now someone claiming to be a demon has kidnapped Winchester's son – who is incidentally the only one of the Winchesters that Singer stayed close to – and tortured him while killing at least ten other people and draining them of blood. I mean, I know that the whole 'Satanic cult' theory has been debunked, but maybe it spawned something. I don't know, it just combines weirdly."

"I see the same pattern but . . . it doesn't mesh with the people to me."

Melissa was silent for a moment. "Do you think it's possible that the reason Winchester found his son so quickly is that he's the one who tortured him?" she asked hesitantly.

"That idea has occurred to me, but it doesn't really fit the reactions that we're seeing. Winchester would have to be a major sociopath to carry it off, and unless Sam doesn't know and Dean hasn't told him, I'd think we'd be getting a real fear vibe off of Sam when his father was around. And Dean, I can't imagine he wouldn't be displaying a little more alarm around his father if that were the case."

"Dean is really the sticking point for me, too," Melissa said. "But I thought I'd better float the idea."

"It's good thinking," he replied. "And it's a theory that will appeal to the tabloids and defense attorneys, so if we don't believe it, we need to come with reasons to refute it."

"I hadn't thought about it that way," she said, and then she lapsed into thought.

The Winchesters stopped again in Tupelo, Mississippi, but they didn't stay long. Dean didn't even get out. Sam did, and he gave their car a sour look as he walked past into a grocery store. He came back with a supply of magazines and got back into the motor home, and they were underway again. Just before they got into Memphis proper, both the vehicles they were following pulled off into Olive Branch, Mississippi.

"Should I follow them?" Melissa asked. "We're almost to the point of having to turn west."

"Yeah. It's almost two. We need a break, and we didn't stop for lunch."

"They're probably eating in the motor home," she replied wistfully.

"Winchester isn't," Denson pointed out.

Melissa shrugged agreement and pulled off the highway. Somewhat to Denson's surprise, they drove to an out of the way diner and parked in the lot. Melissa parked a little closer to the restaurant, and they sat in the car. "Are they actually going to stop to eat?" she asked. "They seemed in a tearing hurry earlier, or at least the father did."

"I noticed that, but I think Dean wants to stop and smell the –"

A knock on the window beside him made him turn in surprise. Dean stood there with Sam a little way off, looking peevish. Denson pressed the button that rolled down the window. "Can I help you?"

Dean gave him a thousand-watt smile and said, "I just thought you two could join us for lunch since we'll be going our separate ways shortly."

Denson's eyes went to Sam, whose express bordered on appalled before he smoothed it out. An imp of mischief, no doubt similar to the one prompting Dean, made him smile. "Yes, we'd be glad to."

"Good. This place has the best fries in the whole state, maybe even the whole south."

"We'll meet you inside," Denson said.

"I'll hold you to that," Dean replied, and Denson, nodding, rolled up the window. Dean continued towards the front door of the restaurant with Sam walking alongside his brother. Sam looked like he was remonstrating, no doubt against the folly of breaking bread with law enforcement.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?"

"Why not?" Denson asked. "They're not suspects, we already agreed on that."

She pursed her lips, but shrugged. "Okay."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Locking up the car, they followed the boys into the restaurant. Both of the older men looked up sourly when they approached, but since two tables had been shoved together to make room for six, they had to have known the agents were coming. Winchester sat at one end, with Dean on his right and Singer on his left. Sam sat next to Dean, which left the opposite end and the spot next to Singer free. Accordingly, Denson sat at the end opposite Winchester.

"Predictable," Winchester muttered.

"Dad!" Sam hissed, looking embarrassed. Winchester shot his youngest son an inimical glare, but he didn't say anything else. Denson guessed it was probably a reaction to the inherent power statement of sitting in the end chair. With neither assigned as the head or the foot, it made their roles at the dining table ambiguous.

A waitress walked up and asked them for their beverage preferences. Everyone but Melissa and Sam ordered beer. There was a brief tussle over Dean's order between Sam and his brother, but Winchester settled it in favor of Dean. Sam got Coke and Melissa ordered diet. Then the waitress left and they all looked at their menus. All but Dean, actually. Denson wondered why. After a steady diet of hospital food following an irregular feeding schedule at the hands of his captors, Denson would honestly have expected the kid to want to revel in his options. An awkward silence reigned while they all looked at their menus. He made his own selections and gave his order when the waitress came back. Once she was gone, the silence fell again until Dean broke it.

"Hey, Sammy, would you go grab me some tissue, please?" he asked. Without argument, without even a question, Sam got up and went towards the bathroom. The minute he was out of easy reach, Dean slid sideways into the chair opposite Melissa. Winchester's eyes widened, and Denson heard him mutter irritably. Dean ignored him, leaning towards Melissa. "So, do you go by Melissa or Missy or what?"

"Mel," she said.

"Mel, I like that," Dean said. "So, where you from, Mel?"

"I live in Birmingham," she said.

"Yeah, but is that where you're from?" he asked, grinning. "I mean, how often does the Bureau send people back to their home towns?"

Mel laughed. "Okay, no, I grew up in Juneau."

"Alaska?" Dean asked, and she nodded. "That's a pretty place. I haven't been there for, what, ten years?" He glanced at his father who shrugged.

"'Bout that," he said. "I guess."

"So, how'd you decide to join the Bureau, Mel?"

"You mean, what's a pretty girl like me doing in the FBI?" she asked, her eyes going sort of cynical.

"No," Dean said with a very slight shrug. "I just wondered if you always wanted to be an agent or if you got head-hunted in college or something."

Melissa's eyes widened slightly, and she smiled involuntarily. "I always wanted to be in law enforcement. I did ROTC in college, and spent four years in the Marines. So, I got head-hunted all right, but from the military."

"Cool. You know, my dad was a marine, weren't you, Dad?"

"Yeah, I was," Winchester said grudgingly. "In Viet Nam."

"I spent two years in Afghanistan," Melissa said. "I was an MP."

"Thank you," Dean said to her, and Denson wasn't sure initially what he meant. "That can't have been pleasant."

Sam came back at that moment and stared briefly at the changed seating arrangements. Then he settled into the newly empty chair and offered Dean the tissue he'd fetched. Dean took it and leaned sideways to stuff it in his pocket, but his face froze and he started to tilt further. Denson reached out automatically to help stabilize him, but before his hand even touched the kid, his brother was on his feet and steadying him.

Dean glowered up at Sam, narrowed his eyes at Denson's outstretched hand, and looked pointedly at his own hand, which was gripping the table, holding him up. "Back off before I smack the both of you. I'm not a kid, I can take care of myself."

"Dean!" Sam hissed, and Dean gave him a death glare that quelled him. Sam sat back down and Denson exchanged an amused look with Melissa.

"Speaking of kids, Agent Denson," Dean said, and Denson turned back to face him. "Do you have any of those little shiny toy badges you guys give to kids to make them feel good?" Denson blinked at him and didn't immediately answer, a little startled by the question. "I've always wanted an FBI badge," he added in an oddly wistful tone.

Denson moistened his lips and glanced around the table, stalling a little while he tried to figure out how to answer the question. Sam looked mortified, Winchester looked stuffed, and Singer looked frankly amused. "Actually, no, I don't," Denson replied.

"How about candy?" Dean asked.

"Nope."

"Well, what do you give kids when they come up to you all excited because you're an FBI agent, then?" Dean asked.

"Do you think I look like an FBI agent?"

Dean snorted. "Have you looked at your shoes, lately?" he asked. "And the suits you wear, they're a dead giveaway."

"Are they?"

"Sure," Dean said. "You have a classic FBI look. The CIA is flashier, the NSA is almost painfully nondescript, and Homeland Security all look like the Blues Brothers." Melissa snorted.

"You've really thought about this," Denson said, raising his eyebrows.

"Yeah, I've been studying up," Dean said, and he winked at Melissa. She flushed again and looked down at her glass.

"Why would you do that?" Denson asked, in part because the others were actually looking sort of alarmed.

Dean shrugged, and the muscles around his eyes twitched slightly, the only indication that the movement might have caused him a bit of pain. "Well, I've been thinking about becoming a male stripper, specializing in authority figures." Winchester let out a choked laugh, Singer covered his mouth with his hand while Sam stared at his brother in appalled silence. Melissa flushed deeper, and Denson concealed a smile. "I mean, anyone can fake a cop or a fireman, but it takes a bit more effort if you want to be convincing as one of the various kinds of federal agents."

"It's an interesting job choice," Denson observed.

"Yeah," Dean said with a smirk. "I got the idea after I saw an episode of _Dr. Sexy_ where this male stripper had to have plastic surgery because he'd gotten burned in a fire."

"I saw that episode," Melissa said. "But wasn't he all about dressing like college professors and private school headmasters? How'd that make you think of federal agencies?"

"You watch that show?" Denson asked, giving his subordinate a puzzled look. Melissa's eyes widened and she blinked at him owlishly.

"It's strangely compelling," Dean said.

"And it's great mind candy," Melissa said, recovering her composure.

"Oh my God," Dean said abruptly. "The new season has to have started by now. Whatever happened to Dr. Hermasillo's baby, and did we find out who the father was? And what about Dr. Waverly's husband? How sick is he really?"

Melissa opened her mouth, then paused and shook her head. "That's too complicated to explain. A lot's happened this season."

"But if you don't tell me, I'll have to wait for re-runs," Dean protested.

"Actually, you could download it on iTunes," Melissa suggested. "I have a friend who doesn't have any other way of watching it, and she gets them like twenty-four hours after they air."

Dean glanced over at his brother. "Is that connected to that pod-thingy you got me?"

"Sure."

Dean dug in his pocket and pulled out an iPod. "Would I have to watch it on this teensy screen?" he asked.

"I don't think so." Sam looked at Melissa. "iTunes lets you watch from the computer, right?"

"As far as I know," she replied.

Sam nodded. "I'll set it downloading at the motel tonight, okay? Then you can watch it on my laptop."

"Cool," Dean said with a grin. At that moment, the waitress arrived with a helper and their food. Denson watched, amused, while Dean teased his brother about how much rabbit food he ate. Sam evidently had a preference for healthy food that he hadn't gotten from either his father or Dean. Denson, himself, had gotten a burger and fries, so he could test out Dean's claim that this place had the best fries in the state.

"So, Agent Denson, where are you from?"

"Call me Cal," Denson said.

"Cal?" Dean repeated. "Seriously? Man, you need a nickname." His brother's eyes widened as Dean spoke. Sam seemed doomed to embarrassment for the duration of this meal, though Denson didn't see anything so wrong with most of what Dean had said. Sam appeared to be somewhat oversensitive to his brother's behavior.

"Cal is my nickname," Denson replied.

"For what?"

"Calvin," Denson said.

Dean clearly found that a very unhappy naming choice. "I'm guessing you weren't named after _Calvin & Hobbes_," he said glumly.

"No, Calvin Coolidge, actually," Denson said. "I'm apparently related to him."

"That kind of sucks," Dean said.

"Could be worse. I have an uncle named Aloysius."

Dean glanced aside at Sam, who in this instance seemed to be entirely on the same page. "That would be worse," Sam said weakly.

"And as for where I'm from . . ." Denson paused to recover the accent he'd long since left behind. "Thibodaux, Louisiana," he said in his best Cajun drawl. "People tease me about being posted to the deep South, and I tell them Birmingham is the north so far as I'm concerned."

"I'll bet," Dean said, laughing. "Louisiana, huh? Lots of ghosts."

Denson shrugged. "Lots of ghost stories, certainement," he said.

Dean seemed to warm to his theme. "Haunted houses, spirit dogs, banshees, all sorts of things." When he saw Denson staring at him, he grinned. "I'm kind of a buff. You ever see any ghosts, Cal?"

"No, but my sister claims she saw a squadron of Confederate soldiers near her college campus in Baton Rouge."

"Highland Road and Lee Drive, right?" Dean asked, eyes sparkling. He really did seem to be interested in the subject. It seemed to make his father and brother uncomfortable.

"Somewhere around there," Denson replied bemusedly.

"That's a famous haunting," Dean said matter-of-factly. "In 1999, a bunch of people called the cops because they saw a bleeding body in the road wearing a Confederate uniform."

"Really?" Melissa asked.

"That's not the half of it," Singer said. "Those soldiers have been seen out there for decades." Winchester looked over at him, his eyes wide, and Singer shrugged.

"Why would they do it, though?" Melissa asked. "I mean, why would the spirits of dead people stick around, that's the thing I've never understood."

"Isn't unfinished business the typical reason?" Denson asked.

"It's one of them," Dean said. "Sometimes it's because they don't know they're dead, sometimes their bodies weren't properly disposed of."

"Like in _Antigone_?" Melissa suggested.

"Auntie who?" Dean asked.

" _Antigone_ , Dean," Sam said impatiently, and Denson saw a bit of irritation enter the older brother's eyes at the condescension. "It's a Greek play by Sophocles, in which a woman is put to death for attempting to bury her brother, so he wouldn't be screwed for the afterlife."

Dean gave him an incredulous look. "What, you mean his body was just left out to rot?"

"Him and all the guys in his army," Sam said. "It was meant to discourage future rebellions."

"That must have stunk things up a bit," Dean said. "Weird play." He shook his head and looked over at Melissa. "You ever seen any ghosts? I bet there are a few in Alaska."

"Sure, there are bunches," she said. "At Ketchikan High School, there's a kid who fell from a catwalk and died in the forties. Sometimes people see his body, but the blood spot comes back no matter how many times it's painted over. I've seen that."

Dean leaned towards her, his enthusiasm apparent – and somewhat flattering. "The body or the blood stain?" he asked earnestly.

"Oh, the stain."

"How big is it?" Dean asked instantly, eyes bright with interest.

Melissa shrugged. "It wasn't very clear, actually, because the paint was fairly fresh, or so I was told."

"You ever see anything else you couldn't explain?"

"Apart from the celebrity of Keanu Reeves, not really."

Dean tilted his head. "You don't like Keanu Reeves?" he asked curiously.

"Not really."

"I thought most women liked his body, at least."

"A good body doesn't make a good actor."

"How many bodies were found in Oklahoma?"

"Three," Melissa said, and Denson turned towards her in surprise. Her eyes widened and she clamped her mouth shut. Denson returned his attention to Dean, impressed by the way the young man had led a trained agent up to answering a question she shouldn't have. Fortunately, this wasn't a crucial detail, so she would learn this lesson on something relatively minor.

Abruptly, Dean's eyes stopped shining with enthusiasm and his expression went shuttered. The change in demeanor was marked and somewhat alarming. "Wow," he said, his voice flat and rough. "I would have expected a lot more."

This caught Denson's attention. "Why do you say that?"

Dean looked down at his hand, turning it over as though to examine it. "There are what, nine pints of blood in the human body?" he asked.

"About," Denson said. Everyone at the table had fallen silent in the wake of that question. "Why?"

Dean's eyes came up and met his. "Because I saw way more blood than three times nine pints, and I don't think most of it was mine."

Denson considered that remark for a moment, then decided to give him some quid pro quo. "Eleven bodies have been found at this point, but we believe there may be more that haven't been identified." Dean closed his eyes, and, even as pale as they were after three months of no sun, his freckles stood out against his skin. "How much blood did you see, Dean?"

Dean's jaw muscles worked as he swallowed hard. He opened his eyes, and Denson could see the depths of anguish in them. "Enough for a remake of _The Shining_ ," he said grimly. Then he focused his attention firmly on his burger, and Denson decided that was enough probing for the moment. On all fronts. Over the course of Dean's skillful questioning, Denson had learned more about Melissa than he had over the last year and a half they'd been working together.

In a clear effort to change the subject, Sam asked Melissa where she'd gone to school, and they spent a while comparing college notes. John hadn't said much throughout the meal, but he spent most of his time watching Dean subtly, his expression compounded of worry and pride. Singer added a few words into every conversation, and he seemed to be knowledgeable on a wide range of topics.

Denson wasn't sure if Dean's appetite had been affected by the earlier conversation, or if he just wasn't up to eating as much as one might expect, but by the time Denson was done with his meal, Dean had only finished about half his burger. Most of his fries were gone, and he wasn't wrong, these were some of the best fries anywhere. When the waitress came back and asked if anyone wanted dessert, however, Dean's head came up instantly. "What kind of pie you got, sweetheart?"

Far from being a sweet young thing, the waitress was probably somewhere around fifty, but she dimpled at his flirting anyway. "Apple, cherry, strawberry rhubarb, blueberry and lemon chiffon."

"Sammy, what kind of pie do we have in the RV?" Dean asked.

"Cherry. I figured on buying fresh as we went," Sam said. "If we needed it."

Dean looked back up at the waitress. "I'd like a piece of everything to go, and bring me a slice of apple with a scoop of vanilla ice cream."

"No problem, sugar. Anyone else?"

Singer ordered strawberry rhubarb, and Denson himself ordered apple pie à la mode like Dean. The waitress had brought Dean a box for his leftovers, but before he could do anything, Sam took over. Dean didn't seem to mind too much. He turned to Denson. "So, Cal, are the cops investigating this stuff in Oklahoma? The OCPD?" he asked.

"They have been, but I have an appointment with a detective tomorrow to get their information and take over."

"What detective, if you don't mind my asking?"

Denson shook his head and shrugged. "Detective Grace Hanadarko," he said.

Dean's eyes widened and he tilted his head. "Detective Hanadarko, huh? Grace? Little bitty thing with bleached blond hair, a penchant for Native American jewelry, and both the sweetest and the dirtiest mouth in three states? That her?"

Denson blinked at this description. "I've never met her, but I don't imagine it's a real common name."

"Dean!" Sam exclaimed, embarrassed yet again.

"It's a good thing you haven't got the slightest chance in hell of catching this guy, because we might have to worry about conflict of interest or something. Maybe. I don't know. You can't trust those procedural cop shows for shit."

"I take it you know Detective Hanadarko?" Denson asked.

Dean grinned. "We played tiddly-winks."

Denson was just wondering if this was a new euphemism when Sam gave his brother a disbelieving look. "Tiddly-winks?" he repeated. "Seriously?"

"What's so weird about that, Sammy?" Dean asked. His brother gave him a dubious look. "You know, like quarters. For drinks?"

"Oh." Sam blinked. "Okay, that makes sense."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Sammy, you already knew we played doctor. What did you think I meant?"

"Honestly, I had images of little colored plastic disks. One of the guys in my dorm had a set."

"Seriously?"

Sam shrugged. "I was going to ask what you did next, get out the Ouija board?"

Dean looked, if anything, offended, which seemed a little odd for a guy who was clearly interested in the supernatural. "What are you, nuts?" he demanded. "I _don't_ do Ouija boards. I'm not crazy."

"I've played with a Ouija board," Melissa said, and both the brothers turned to look at her with wide eyes.

"Are you nuts?" Dean asked incredulously.

"What's the big deal? It's just a stupid game."

"Mostly that's all it is," Sam said soberly. "But strange stuff can happen."

"Yeah, didn't you ever see _Witchboard_?" Dean asked.

"Sure, that's why we –"

"Oh my God! You're an idiot!"

"You know it's not for real, right? Ghost stories aside."

Dean gazed at her for a moment. "Yeah, I know," he said, and Denson didn't believe him for a minute. "But why tempt fate?"

"That's what I say," the waitress said. "Them Ouija boards are crazy weird." She put a bag of little Styrofoam boxes down in the middle of the table, and another box down on top of Dean's leftovers.

"What's this?" Dean asked.

"I figured you'd need some more fries when you finish up that burger later," she said.

"Doris, you are an angel," Dean said. "And I should know." Both Winchester and Singer choked, and Sam just looked pained.

"Thanks, sugar. Let me bring you that pie."

They engaged in small talk over dessert. Dean ate three or four bites of ice cream and a couple of bites of pie, but he seemed to be losing steam a bit.

"Well, we'd better be getting back on the road," Winchester said. "I want to make it to West Plains before we stop." He glanced at the bill and dropped a pile of cash in the middle of the table. "You ready to go, Dean?"

Dean smiled weakly. "Sure. Hey, Cal, tell Grace hi for me, would you? And that friend of hers, Rhetta, if you see her."

"Sure," Denson said, wondering why Dean thought he'd be meeting one of the detective's friends. "Drive safe."

Winchester glanced at his younger son, who took his brother by the arm and started guiding him towards the door. Denson was mildly surprised that Dean didn't object. Singer packed up the remains of Dean's dessert and picked up the bag of food. He glanced at Winchester and headed out.

"What will they be driving?" Winchester asked once his sons were out of the building.

"Who?" Denson asked.

"The fellows you've set up to follow us even though I told you I didn't want them."

Denson blinked at him. "I believe they'll be in a blue Ford Taurus." He glanced over at the road and recognized one of the men in the car across the way. "That's them, actually," he said, nodding towards it.

John followed his gaze. "Thanks. I wouldn't want to make a mistake."

Denson nodded and they parted ways.

"What did he mean by that?" Melissa asked.

"That he's keeping an eye out for followers," Denson said, shrugging. "Let's go. We've got a long drive ahead of us."

* * *

 _Author's note: Detective Grace Hanadarko is the central character of_ Saving Grace _, so you might want visit the Wikipedia page for an introduction to the show's premise in the next week or so if you haven't watched it (and don't intend to). Like I said, it's not central, you can enjoy her without knowing any details of the show, but if you feel the need . . .  
_


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Dean still wasn't interested in lying down in the bedroom, so Sam set him back up on the sofa. He took the swivel chair opposite, pulled down the table and tried to go back to studying. Bobby was driving, and Dean was watching out the window. They traveled in silence for a good twenty miles, but then Sam noticed Dean raise his hand to wave at someone outside. He stood up and peered out to see a couple of extremely good looking women all bundled up in a jeep with the top down.

"You are impossible!" Sam exclaimed.

"How so?" Dean asked affably.

"Flirting with women you'll never even meet."

"They started it."

Sam rolled his eyes and sat back down. "Do you really know that cop Denson's going to meet with?"

Dean shrugged. "Sure. Hell, I've even met her brother, the priest, and her best friend, the forensic chick."

Sam's eyes widened. "Dean, are you saying you made it with a girl whose brother's a priest?" he asked in a strangled voice.

"Sure."

"Dean!" Sam exclaimed.

"What, Sammy? I made it with her, not her brother, so what's the problem?"

"He has a point, Sam," Bobby said from the front.

Sam shot an irritated glare at their surrogate uncle, then turned back to Dean. "I don't – since when do you make it with cops, anyhow?"

"You already know about this one, Sammy, so I don't know what all the flap is about."

"I know about her?" Sam asked, blinking. "What are you talking about?"

"Grace, Sammy. Think back, about five years ago when we were in Oklahoma."

Sam cast his mind back to the late nineties, trying to come up with something that made sense. Oklahoma City . . . Grace . . . inspiration struck abruptly. "Oh, that Grace." He shook his head, remembering more of what Dean had told him. "That Grace? The one who invited you back to her place and kept you up all night?"

Dean closed his eyes, smiling. "Yeah, that Grace."

"How _did_ you hook up with a cop, Dean?" Bobby asked.

"She beat me at pool," Dean replied, eyes still closed.

"Wow," Sam said.

"So what?" Bobby asked.

"Nobody beats Dean at pool, Bobby. Or, maybe that should be, nobody _but me_ beats Dean at pool."

"Big words, little brother," Dean said, slitting his eyes briefly.

"So, you didn't know she was a cop?"

"Actually, it was kind of hard to miss. I just went to a bar that looked pretty much like a dive, figured I could make some money hustling pool. I didn't know it till I got inside, but it was a cop bar."

"Shit, kid," Bobby said.

"And you can't exactly turn around and walk out when you figure it out, because that looks really bad," Dean added, and Sam had to agree. "So, I played it straight and got into a game with a guy named Butch. I skunked him, and he paid up, no argument, but that got Grace's attention. She challenged me to a game, and took half of what I won off her buddy."

"She give it back to him?" Sam asked.

"Hell, no," Dean said laughing. "It was pool, Sammy, not charity. She bought drinks for her friends and me, then she stuck the rest of it in her bra." That was clearly a pleasant memory from the way Dean grinned.

"How'd you end up meeting her brother?" Sam asked curiously.

Dean shrugged. "He came in for a drink." Sam blinked at him, and Dean rolled his eyes. "Evidently he likes a little beer from time to time. She introduced me around, mostly guys, mostly cops. I don't remember half their names, but there was another girl, real pretty, name of Rhetta. Smart as a whip, and you could just tell they were old school best friends. You know, pinky swears and smoking behind the gym and all of that."

"I'll bet she heard all about you afterward, then," Bobby commented, glancing back with a grin.

"I'll bet she did," Dean said, yawning. "I won't say she was the best I ever had, but she ranks in the top ten."

"I so didn't need to know that, Dean," Sam groaned.

Before Sam even finished, Dean had drifted off to sleep. Sam stood up and walked forward, settling in the passenger chair where he could still see Dean, but where he was a little closer to Bobby. "How you doing, Bobby?" he asked.

"Spectacular," Bobby said dryly. "That little performance of your brother's wasn't exactly designed to lower blood pressure."

"You seemed to enjoy it," Sam remarked sourly.

"Some of the time it was pretty funny." Sam rolled his eyes and looked out the window. "A couple of times I thought your father was going to have a stroke," Bobby added. "And you weren't far behind him. You gotta learn not to let stuff get to you so bad." They were coming up on an interchange, so Bobby stopped talking for a few minutes while he negotiated the traffic. When they were back on the straight highway, he chuckled. "Towards the end, there, I think Denson was impressed."

"By what?" Sam asked.

"Dean's little interrogation. That female agent, Melissa or whatever, she must be fairly new at this."

"She's probably not used to having lunch with people she's not supposed to be candid with," Sam said. "And Dean's just like that. He always could get anyone to tell him anything. Except Dad." He sighed. "So, that's eleven bodies so far, and you note Denson didn't even tell us where they were all found. All we know is that there were three found in Oklahoma City."

"We still don't even know how they've been linked back to Dean."

"Probably blood types and DNA. There were jars of blood in that house, and I'd imagine the same was true of the place where we found Dean."

"Is there some way you could, I don't know, get into the computer files and find out?" Bobby asked. "I'm sure it's very proper and all for them not to tell us about their investigation, but it's damned inconvenient. And we can't pretend to be FBI investigating, because the FBI's already been by and they undoubtedly left business cards. Not only that, the FBI knows all our faces."

"I'll see what I can do," Sam said. "I haven't done much of that kind of hacking, but I know the principles."

"Glad to hear it," Bobby replied. "Could come in handy."

Sam shook his head, looking out the window. "How are we going to do this overnight? You and Dad staying in here?"

"As we discussed it, your dad will sleep on the floor, I'll get the double bed/sofa thing Dean's sleeping on now, and you boys will sleep in the back of the RV."

"With me on the door side of the bed," Sam finished.

"Why do you say that?"

"Because that's how it works. Weakest member of the group sleeps the furthest from the entrance. Dean always slept on the door side of the bed, no matter where we were." He sighed and sat back. "No, that sounds good. I had unpleasant visions of scouring some motel room bathroom."

"Your daddy and I figured that would be too much trouble. This way, we'll be on hand to keep tabs on things."

"Works for me, though Dad snores like a buzz saw. Dean and I are used to it, but –"

Bobby laughed. "I'll survive."

* * *

Dean ate on his burger and fries off and on all evening, but when they stopped for dinner, he still had enough room for a slice and a half of pizza. He slept more of the evening than he would have preferred, but he supposed there were worse things. Like staying awake on a thin mattress in a cage with a demon prowling around.

"All right, it's time for bed," Bobby announced suddenly after they'd all finished eating.

"Aren't we going to a motel?" Dean asked.

"We got plenty of beds right here," Bobby replied.

"Damn, I was kind of hoping to get to watch Sammy scrub out a bathroom."

"You'll get plenty of that once we get to my place," Bobby said. "You boys take the back room, and your dad and I will work things out up here."

Dean considered objecting, but truth be told, he didn't really have enough energy to object. He just got up and trudged back to the back room by way of the bathroom. When he got there, he found Sam waiting with a pile of bandages and some kind of ointment. "We've got to change your dressings."

"I'm not a salad," Dean growled.

"No, but we don't want those to get infected, and I can see that you've been seeping a little."

Dean groaned, but he let Sam bully him into taking off his clothes down to his shorts and letting him remove the bandages. He still hadn't really seen any of this crap, but Sam didn't give him any time to think about it. Apologizing profusely, he began to clean the seeping wounds.

"Sammy," Dean said finally, tired of the chronicle of remorse. "It's okay. This hurts way less than . . . than it could." His courage failed him when he started to think of previous methods of treating his injuries. His mind shifted sideways, making him finish the sentence sort of lamely. "It's a little cold in here, though, so if you could step it up, that wouldn't be a bad thing."

"I could turn up the heat," Sam suggested.

"No, just get me all fixed up and let's hit the sack."

Sam was a little fumble-fingered with the ointment, but Dean found he immensely preferred having his brother apply it, clumsily or not, than having the nurses do it. Seemed kind of weird, because the nurses had all been girls, and he usually preferred to have girls touching him all over, but there was nothing sexual about this treatment. He shuddered slightly.

"You okay?" Sam asked instantly. "Did I hurt you?"

"Fine, Sammy. You didn't do anything." He knew Sammy wasn't a demon, and he for sure knew Sammy wasn't working for a demon. He couldn't be as certain of the nurses. He'd trusted them because one of the three, Sammy, Dad or Bobby, was always present, and he knew they'd make sure nothing happened that shouldn't.

Sam wound bandages around his torso again. Dean had resigned himself to looking like a mummy, but he didn't have to like it. Once that was done, he sagged to the bed and looked down at his thigh. The scars there were pink and healthy, if a bit too perfectly shaped. "I wonder why that one healed okay," he muttered.

"Because it was so fresh, I think," Sam said. "It was only done the day before we got you back, right?"

"Yeah," Dean said.

"So they were able to clean the crap out of it and it just healed normally."

"Hunh." Dean shrugged, wincing slightly when that caught the healing cuts on his back. He rose and started around the bed to climb in.

"Hey, dude, that's my side," Sam said, putting an arm out.

Dean shook his head. "Baby brothers on the inside," he said automatically.

"Hurt brother on the inside," Sam countered. "Remember when you had a concussion and three broken ribs?"

Dean blinked, casting his mind back. "I guess," he said slowly. "You were, what, fourteen?"

"Yup. Dad had me sleep on the outside till you were a little more mobile." He nodded towards the protected side of the bed. "The blanket's electric."

Dean smiled faintly and made his way around to the other side, still puzzling over the argument. He didn't remember the incident Sam had referred to all that clearly, though that could probably be explained by the concussion. Flipping the covers back, he slid in, the bandages catching a little on the sheets. They felt cool and clean, and smelled new. He paused and glanced over at Sam, who was in the process of disrobing. "Maybe you should wrap me a little thicker," he said. "I don't want to stain the sheets."

"The sheets are cheap and they were bought for the trip," Sam said. "There's also a thick pad underneath to avoid staining the mattress. Don't worry about it." Dean still wasn't happy with the idea, but he didn't have the energy to fight about it. He relaxed and tried to settle in to sleep. Sammy got in on the other side and Dean felt a waft of cold air by his feet. "Sorry, Dean, I forgot. My feet kind of hang off the end." He shifted, and Dean could tell that he was curling up on his side.

"You really are ginormous, aren't you?"

"Good night, Dean."

"Feels like old times, doesn't it?"

"Except my feet never hung off the bed back then," Sam said with a small laugh. "Go to sleep, Dean."

Dean closed his eyes, and he drifted for a while. It wasn't really sleep, he didn't think. He could still hear the buzz saw in the other part of the motor home and feel Sam shifting on the bed beside him.

Sammy. He'd changed some in the four years since he'd run away from home to go to college. Not a lot, he was still Dean's little brother, half girl, half genius, but he wasn't altogether the same kid. For one thing, he actually seemed to like Dean again. It had been years since they'd spent much time together that hadn't been marred by fighting. That last while, Sam had interpreted most of what Dean said as an attack, and when he wasn't being defensive, he was going on the offensive himself. Dean knew a lot about Sammy's movements in California, all the places he'd lived and worked, but he didn't know much of the day to day stuff. He'd watched from a distance, so he didn't even know how his brother had met the girlfriend who'd turned out to be a demon.

Sam shifted again, and he let out a sigh that sounded wakeful. "Sammy?" Dean said softly.

"Yeah Dean?" Sam replied. "Can't you sleep?"

"Was Jessica your first?" he asked, hoping Sammy wouldn't freak out or cry or something.

"Wow, that was . . . out of the blue," Sam said, but he didn't sound angry. "No, she wasn't. Why?"

"I just . . . I hoped not," Dean said, immeasurably relieved.

"Not even close," Sam said.

"Really?" Dean asked. "Then when?"

"Seriously?" Sam turned his head, so Dean turned to face him, too. "Are you seriously asking me when I lost my virginity?"

"You know when I lost mine," Dean said.

"Because you trumpeted it to the universe," Sam said, laughing quietly.

"Come on, Sam, who? When? I know you're too much of a gentleman to give me any details, but who and when should be okay."

Sam was silent for several moments, and Dean began to wonder if he'd fallen asleep. Then Sam took a breath and spoke. "Margie Sternweis. Spencer, Wisconsin. Junior year."

Dean blinked at the ceiling. "You unbuttoned enough to have sex in high school?" he asked, frankly incredulous.

Sam snorted. "She kind of attacked me when I told her we were leaving town."

"Was it the war of the virgins?"

"Uh, no," Sam said. "She knew exactly what she was doing."

"Those Catholic school girls, I tell you," Dean said, leaning closer. "Tell me, please tell me she was wearing her uniform."

"Well, not the whole time," Sam said, and Dean would swear he flushed with embarrassment, but the light was too uncertain to tell for sure.

"D'oh!"

"Shut up!" Bobby shouted.

Sam clapped his hands over his face. "Oh my God," he exclaimed in heartfelt tones. "Dean, I am going to kill you."

"Will you all keep it quiet back there!" Bobby shouted.

Dean laughed. "Sorry, Bobby. Sammy, leave me alone so we can let the grown ups sleep."

"Dean –" Sammy started to protest, but he cut himself off and fell silent.

Dean snuggled down and finally dropped off to sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

_Author's note: Thank you to everyone who has reviewed, but I would like to put out a request for more reviews. I realize that I kind of overreacted on_ Season of the Witch _a while back, but what you can't know is that right at that time,_ _I felt attacked by someone I had been interacting with online with regard to fanfiction_ _._ _I got a little touchy, and_ _ _, as I said,_ I overreacted.  
_

 _Look, I need reviews. reviews are love. And, I will say, a couple of people suggested then that I might stop posting because of negative reviews, but the simple fact is that I'm far more likely to stop if I stop getting reviews at all. I have a fairly strong ego, but it needs to be stroked. ;)  
_

* * *

 **Chapter 5**

Sam woke up deep in the night to go to the bathroom. He slipped out of bed and started towards the door, but he stopped when he realized that he wasn't alone. Blinking, he regarded Castiel in puzzlement. "What're you doing here?" he asked.

"Keeping an eye on Dean," the angel said, stepping aside to let Sam pass.

"He's sleeping," Sam muttered as he went by. He took care of business and walked back into the bedroom. The angel was still staring at Dean. "That's kind of weird, you know."

"I have already stopped three nightmares," Castiel said.

"Oh." Sam paused, blinking. "That's good."

"Go back to sleep, Sam."

"'Kay," Sam said, and he rolled onto his side and dropped off.

* * *

Having stopped in Fort Smith to stay the night, Denson and Melissa arrived at the Oklahoma Police Department at ten in the morning. They were directed to a bull pen where a piñata of a longhorn head, the mascot for the UT Austin football team, hung from the ceiling. Beneath it, a blindfolded woman with long blond hair and a stick in her hands was being spun by a scruffy-looking guy. Denson stopped in mild astonishment and watched as the man brought her to a halt and gave her a gentle shove towards the piñata.

"Oh, come on, Ham!" exclaimed a handsome fellow with brown hair. The other guy just grinned at him while the woman took a swing at the piñata and sent it spinning. "Fun's fun, and all, but –" He broke off when the stick struck the center of the steer head and broke it open to release a tidal wave of candy intermingled with erasers bearing the logo for the University of Oklahoma Sooners.

The show over, a uniform turned to them and said, "Can I help you?"

"Yes," Denson said. "I'm here to speak with Detective Grace Hanadarko. I believe she's expecting me."

"Oh," the woman said, her eyes darting to the woman who had now taken off her blindfold and was surveying her handiwork with pride. Denson was amused. Dean was right. She was a little bitty thing, and he could see where a woman with that amount of verve would be appealing. "Grace? Your FBI friends are here."

Hanadarko turned around and looked over at them, assessing their suits, and Denson couldn't help thinking that they were neither flashy nor nondescript. That young man did have a gift for memorable phrases. "They're no friends of mine," she said, walking over to meet them. The Longhorns fan drifted towards them, as did the man he'd called Ham. Hanadarko gazed at him frankly. "So, I understand you're here to steal our case."

Denson shrugged. "I'm Special Agent Calvin Denson, and this is Special Agent Melissa Haynes."

She put out her hand. "Grace Hanadarko." Jerking her head towards the guys behind her, she said, "These here are Ham Dewey and Butch Ada. Over there by the desks, that tall drink of water is Bobby Stillwater."

"Nice to meet you all," Denson said.

"Why don't we go into the conference room?" Hanadarko suggested, leading the way. Glancing back at Melissa, Denson followed Grace. Dewey went to his desk and picked up a phone, and Ada walked back over and sat down, focusing on a file on his desk. As soon as they were in the conference room, Hanadarko turned around and put her hands on her hips. "What makes you think your case is connected to my crime scene?" she asked.

Denson had been prepared for the question, though perhaps not asked so quickly. He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a file with two pictures in it. He handed it to Hanadarko without speaking. Her brows furrowed, and she seemed to find his silence a little unexpected. She opened the file and her lips tightened.

"The top photo is from a house in Graysville, Alabama, just north of Birmingham. The second is from an old Elks hall about fifteen miles away."

Hanadarko took both the photos out of the file and put them on the table. "Son of a bitch. Bodies?"

"Six in the Birmingham metropolitan area, and two in the area around Lexington, Kentucky. We've got people searching Lexington for a kill site like those."

"Holy shit," Hanadarko said. "How close together?"

"All within the last month," Denson said, and she whistled.

"Well, what can we do to help you catch this bastard?" she asked, suddenly all business and pointing in the right direction.

"There is something I should tell you before we get too far into things," he said, glancing over at Melissa, who excused herself to find a restroom. Hanadarko looked up from the photographs, eyes dark with thought.

"What's up?"

"Do you know a man named Dean Winchester?" he asked.

Handarko blinked, shaking her head, not in denial but in uncertainty. "Not sure. Why?"

Denson pulled out a head shot of Dean that he'd gotten from John Winchester. "Here, see if you recognize him."

She took the picture and looked down at it. Her lips curved in a reminiscent smile. "Sure, I remember him. It's been a while, but yeah." She sighed, tilting her head with a distant look in her eyes. "Dean Winchester."

"He asked me to tell you hi," Denson said, and she looked up again. "So far we have three kill sites, eleven bodies, and one survivor." He nodded towards Dean's photo.

"Shit!" The woman stared at the picture in shock, and Denson wasn't quite sure what to say. So far as he knew, this had been a one-night stand, but being connected however tenuously to something like this could have unexpected impact. She looked up again, her words and voice casual but tension visible in her jaw and neck muscles. "How'd he get away? The guy get interrupted or something?"

"Actually, it appears that he was held for roughly ten weeks. Your site is part of an office complex, right?" She nodded mutely. "That would have been the second stop on his journey, or so I gather."

"You're telling me that Dean was here, in Oklahoma City, being held by the guy who killed those people?"

"Guys, yes," he said, and her eyes widened at the correction. "Held and tortured," Denson said. "The markings found on the bodies here are pale imitations of what were left behind on Dean's body."

"Then how the hell did he get away?"

"He was found by his family who tracked him down when the police refused to investigate because he was a drifter and . . ." He shrugged and she nodded understanding. "We're still not clear on how they located him. They claim to have consulted a psychic." Hanadarko nodded without replying. The silence dragged on, and Denson glanced towards the door. He wondered who Dewey had gone to call and when someone else from her department would join them, because she seemed a little undone.

"And he told you he knew me?" she said finally.

"I told him who I was going to see," Denson said. "He told me you'd played tiddly winks." She let out a huff that was almost laughter.

The door opened to admit Dewey and another woman, this one with dark hair and glasses. Dewey was carrying a box of what looked like evidence, and the woman had a couple of files in her hands. Her eyes widened on seeing Hanadarko and she hurried forward to put the files down. "Something wrong, Grace?" she asked. Dewey put his box down and glared at Denson.

"Do you remember this guy?" Hanadarko asked, holding out the photo.

The other woman took it. "Sure, I do. That cute guy from . . ." She shook her head. "Is it really five years ago? We are so old. What's he got to –" She broke off, her eyes widening as she seemed to realize that there must be a connection with the case given the circumstances. "He's not dead, is he?"

"Lucky not to be, from the sound of it," Hanadarko said. Emotion seemed to get the better of her abruptly. "He was here, Rhetta! Here in that damned office building, getting tortured, and we never knew a thing!"

"Shit, Grace," Rhetta breathed.

"I need a smoke." She left the room abruptly, and the door fell shut behind her.

Rhetta turned to Denson and handed him the photo. "We'll be back in a minute," she said, and then she followed Hanadarko out.

"What's going on?" Dewey asked him.

"Apparently, Detective Hanadarko knew our one surviving victim briefly about five years ago." He glanced over at the evidence and the files. "Maybe you can bring me up to speed?"

"Sure. Right." Dewey looked worriedly toward where Hanadarko and her friend had gone, then sighed and focused on the task at hand.

* * *

When Sam woke up, they were already on the road. He rolled out of bed and checked to make sure Dean was still sleeping. He was, so Sam got up and went out front. "What about breakfast?" he asked.

"We're just getting to the local greasy spoon, son. Get Dean up."

Sam nodded blearily and went back to find that Dean was already making his unsteady way to the bathroom. "This is just wrong," he muttered. "A man should be able to piss right away when he wakes up."

"It'll just be a minute, Dean," Bobby said.

Sam helped Dean to a seat at the table, not wanting him to bounce around any more than he had to. He settled down opposite him, and tried to force himself the rest of the way awake. "How you feeling this morning?" he asked Dean.

"Apart from the fact that my back teeth are floating, I'm fine," Dean said.

Sam reached over, opened one of the drawers and pulled out the morning pill organizer, sticking it in his pocket. Some of them needed to be taken with food, so he'd just take it into the restaurant.

"What are you doing with that?" Dean asked.

"You can take them with breakfast," Sam replied.

"You are not taking that out in the restaurant," Dean announced. "Absolutely not. I do not want to look like some wacko who can't get through the day without pills."

"Dean, you're not well. It's normal to –"

"Nobody my age walks around with a box of pills with days of the week on it unless they're seriously ill."

One look at Dean's face, and Sam knew it would be counterproductive to point out that his condition qualified as seriously ill. He thought fast and came up with an idea that he hoped Dean would put up with. Reaching over, he opened another drawer and pulled out a sandwich bag. He flipped open Friday's slot on the pill organizer and dumped the pills into the bag and, knotting it, put just it in his pocket. "Better?"

"Not really, no," Dean said, but he didn't object further.

Sam put the organizer away and rubbed his eyes. He'd had some pretty odd dreams, but nothing that felt prophetic or anything. Then he remembered something odd. "Castiel was here last night," he said.

"What for?" Bobby exclaimed.

"He was just keeping Dean from having nightmares, I guess. Kind of weirded me out a little. I got up to use the bathroom, and there he was, standing in the bedroom, watching him sleep.

"Dude, 'him' is right here, and that's freaky."

Sam turned back towards Dean in surprise. "Sorry, Dean, I didn't mean anything."

Dean shook his head as if to apologize. "No worries, Sammy. I'm just . . . he was watching me?"

Sam shrugged. "Yeah, but I don't think he's . . . he seems kind of socially inept."

"Do you know what socially 'ept' is for an angel, Sammy? Really?"

"Ept isn't a word, Dean."

Dean's eyes narrowed. "Really, Sammy? That's what you want to talk about?"

Sam shook his head. "No, I . . . did you sleep peacefully? Any nightmares?"

"Slept like a baby," Dean said. "But I don't need a babysitter, even if that babysitter is an angel."

Bobby pulled to a stop and Dean was up in an instant, going immediately into the bathroom. The outer door opened and Dad came up the steps. "Everybody awake?"

"Yeah," Sam said. "Dean's just in the bathroom."

Bobby got up and turned around. "John, that angel showed up again."

Dad's eyes widened. "What? When?"

"Last night," Bobby said. "Sam saw him."

Dad's glare turned on him. "You saw him? And you didn't wake us up?"

"I was half asleep, Dad."

"That's no excuse!" John growled, coming right up to Sam, invading his space. "A dangerous supernatural –"

"An angel, Dad," Sam retorted. "An angel, not a demon or a monster, an –"

"Dangerous and supernatural, Sam! You should have woken me up."

"Fine, next time I will," Sam said. "I just – I didn't think. He was stopping Dean's nightmares, and that didn't seem like a bad thing to me."

* * *

Dean emerged from the bathroom to a scene that threw him back four years. Sam and Dad were facing off, mere inches apart. Dean couldn't see Sam's face, but he could see Dad's and he looked pissed. "You're not in a position to make judgment calls like that," Dad snapped, and Dean felt his stomach clench. He hadn't missed this, not at all.

"Why, because you have so much more experience with angels than I do?"

"John?" Bobby said, but Dad didn't pay any attention. Dean's hands crept up to cover his ears.

"Because you left, Sammy. Because you stopped hunting long enough to grow stale. And because I'm your father."

"Sam!" Bobby said, his voice pleading.

Sam ignored him, too. "Right, because the great John Winchester has all the answers. It didn't –"

"Stop it!" The words were impelled out of Dean with unexpected force, and both his brother and his father fell silent, their expressions first startled, then anxious. "Just shut up, the both of you!" Dean added. "You're upsetting Bobby."

That had the desired effect of making them both look at Bobby, not him, and Dean let out a shaky breath. He needed to get a handle on this, because his self-control was wobbly enough as it was. He stood directly behind Sam, his father just beyond him, and Bobby a few steps further on. The space wasn't real large, and his family had chosen to have their confrontation in the middle of the narrowest section, so Dean couldn't even scoot by. He was about to suggest that they get a move on when a voice spoke from behind him, making him jump out of his skin.

"It was not my intention to disturb you, Dean."

Dean lurched forward and turned around, the sudden movement forcing a gasp of pain out of him. Sam bumped into Dad, and Dad stumbled. Before Dean could go down, though, Castiel seized him by the shoulders. Sam turned and steadied him, and the angel stepped back. "Damn it!" Dean exclaimed. "If you don't want to disturb me, don't just appear behind me like that!"

"I could not appear in front of you," Castiel said. "That space is occupied."

By a sasquatch who still had his hands on Dean's shoulders. "Fussy," he growled. "That's what you are. You're fussy. You coming to breakfast with us?"

"No."

"Okay." Dean shook his head. "Well, I'm hungry. Anyone else up for some breakfast?"

"Starving," Sam said behind him.

Dean turned to look at his brother, and while he was facing away, he heard a sound like wings. When he turned back, Castiel was gone. "Dude, I hate that," Dean said.

"Let's go," Dad said. "The sooner we eat, the sooner we can get back on the road."

Dean noticed Sam reaching into his pocket as though to check on the pills he'd tucked away there. "Sammy, you might as well leave those here. I'm not taking them in the restaurant."

Sam gazed at him and glanced down at his pocket. "Okay," he said. "Fine. We'll get it to go, and you can eat it in the RV."

"What?" Dean stared at him in shock. "You'd do that to me, wouldn't you?"

"I just want to take care of you, Dean," Sam said, and he fixed him with those big brown eyes.

Dean ground his teeth. "Fine, I'll take the damn meds wherever you want. Can we just go?"

Sammy smiled. "Sure, Dean. That's all I wanted." He started out through the RV, pushing Dad ahead of him.

Breakfast was a quiet meal. Both Dad and Sammy seemed too tense to talk, Bobby was taciturn by nature, and Dean didn't have enough energy to put up a front of cheerful chatter. Apart from his feeble attempts to flirt with the waitress, they talked of nothing more than salt and ketchup and hot sauce. Sam handed over Dean's pills just after their food arrived, and he took them with a glass of milk. With the looks Dad and Sam kept shooting back and forth, Dean found himself just as glad that they wouldn't be traveling together. It gave him the powerful desire to grab the keys and go for a long drive in the Impala, but that wasn't exactly possible. Then a very unpleasant thought occurred to him.

"Where are the keys?"

All three of his companions turned towards him, looking surprised. "What keys?" Sam asked.

"The Impala. Where are the keys?"

"Gone," Dad said. "I still have my spares, but the set you had are gone."

Dean shook his head. So much was gone. His clothes, his weapons, his keys, his music. He'd kept thinking that if he could just get out, he could go back to life as he'd known it, but that was gone. The Colt 1911, the PT-99, the knives he'd sharpened and cleaned since he was in grade school, everything he'd ever known was just gone. Never coming back. And his car had been cleaned by a demon, which more or less meant that it would have to be cleaned again before Dean would be able to stand the thought of driving it, to remove any trace of Azazel's touch.

Sammy had given him the music back in a way, and for that he was immensely grateful, but Azazel hadn't just taken his freedom, hadn't just maimed his body and left him a physical wreck, he'd also taken Dean's whole life.

Dean ate as much as he could, but it wasn't as much as he knew he should. They boxed up the sausage and hash browns, but Dean stopped Sam before he could box up the eggs. "Trust me, they don't heat up well, Sammy," he said. He could feel himself sagging a bit. "Let's just go."

"Sure, Dean, whatever you want," Sam said.

As they walked across the parking lot, Dad caught Sammy's arm and held him back. Dean didn't turn around, he just kept walking towards the RV with Bobby. He didn't want to hear what they had to say. Bobby helped him up the stairs and Dean didn't fight him when he suggested going back to bed. He just pulled off his pants and took the coat off. He lay down and fell straight asleep.

* * *

Once Dean was asleep, Bobby returned to the door where he saw that Sam and John still stood a good twenty feet off, arguing. Their behavior of late had been too good to last, but he could wish they'd managed to keep the inevitable explosion out of Dean's hearing. Watching him hunch and pull in on himself during that uber-tense meal had pissed Bobby off no end. The kid didn't need the stress, and the argument out there didn't seem to be abating. In fact, it seemed to be picking up steam.

After several minutes, he went to the driver's seat and fired up the RV. Going back to the door, he looked to see if the action seemed to have had any impression on the pair of them. They had started towards him, from the looks of things, but they'd stopped within a few steps to continue the fight. Bobby'd had enough. He shut the door and locked it, then returned to the driver's seat. Putting it in gear, he backed up and drove out onto the street, taking care not to run anyone over however much he was tempted.

He was on the on-ramp before his phone rang. Shock and disbelief had evidently lasted awhile for the pair of them. He picked up the phone. "Yeah?"

"What the hell are you doing, Bobby?" John demanded.

"You and Sam can ride together till you get this shit out of your systems," Bobby replied.

"You can't be alone with Dean," John protested.

"Yeah, why not?"

"What if he needs something? Or what if something comes in there with you? We agreed that someone needed to be mobile at all times inside the motor home."

"I'm not alone in here," Bobby said sarcastically.

"How so?"

"I've got an angel riding shotgun," Bobby snapped, and then he shut the phone irritably.

"I do not have a shotgun," said a voice directly behind his right shoulder. Bobby jerked with surprise, but he managed to keep from swerving at all. "And I do not require one."

"Don't _do_ that!" Bobby exclaimed.

"Do what?" the angel asked.

"Sneak up on people like that."

"Why did you tell John that I am riding shotgun?"

"To get him off my case," Bobby said. "I didn't know you were actually here."

"But you do need assistance in caring for Dean. Why did you leave Sam behind?"

"Because the two of them fighting like that isn't good for Dean. They need to settle things between them before they turn Dean into a knot."

"I see. I will remain in the back room with Dean to aid his sleep. If he needs anything, I will attempt to provide it." He strode away, leaving Bobby flabbergasted.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Grace took a long draw on her cigarette and blew out the smoke. "He was there. In that stupid office complex. I've driven past that place I don't know how many times in the last two months."

Rhetta put an arm around her friend. "You couldn't know, Grace. No one knew."

"Is that supposed to make it better?" Grace demanded.

"No," Rhetta said slowly. "No, it's not supposed to make it better. It's just the truth."

"The truth, Rhetta?" Grace said, her voice rough with emotion. "The truth is that a serial killer, a mass murderer, just strolled in here – with a captive – stayed awhile, then left again, all without tripping a single alarm."

"Yeah, I know," Rhetta said, not sure what her point was.

"That's terrible!" Grace retorted, her tone suggesting that Rhetta had somehow suddenly gone stupid.

"Yes, it's terrible. We all know that, but you knew the guy."

"That doesn't make it more terrible, Rhetta," Grace said. "It just makes it real."

Images of the crime scene entered Rhetta's mind, and she abruptly wondered if any of the blood in her lab belonged to that nice young fellow. Some of it almost had to, she supposed. "Yeah, it does make it more real, I guess."

"Earl told me to stay away from this case."

Rhetta stared at her in shock. "What?"

"He told me to stay away from this case," Grace repeated. "He said it was above his pay grade, whatever the hell that means."

"He's an angel. What's above an angel?"

"I don't know," Grace replied irritably. "Angels with bigger offices? God?"

"God had nothing to do with that horror," Rhetta said emphatically.

"No, I'm sure He didn't, but whatever's going on may not be something Earl needs to know. Honestly, sometimes Earl doesn't seem to know much."

"But he told you to stay away from this case?"

"Yeah, so he'll be thrilled that the FBI is taking it away."

Rhetta didn't know what to say to that. She'd already been aware of Grace's irritation over the FBI's assertion of jurisdiction, but having a victim that she knew involved in the case had to make things just that much worse.

"How did you find out?" Rhetta asked. "Did you just see the photo and realize, or –"

"No. Agent Denson told Dean who he was going to see, and Dean told him he knew me. " She snorted. "He told Denson to tell me hi."

"Wait, a guy you slept with five years ago had an FBI agent tell him he was going to see you on his case, _and_ he remembered your name _and_ told the guy to tell you hello?" Grace shrugged with funny little grin. "Shit, Grace."

"What?" Grace raised her eyebrows. "It's not like we did anything wrong, Rhetta."

"So what happened to him? How come he didn't wind up dead and cut to pieces? How'd he escape?"

"He didn't," Grace said. "Get this, when the cops refused to investigate, his family tracked him down with the help of a psychic."

"No way!" Rhetta exclaimed.

"I'm sure the FBI believe that as much as I do. God knows how they really found him, but –"

"Why couldn't it be a psychic?" Rhetta demanded.

"A psychic, Rhetta?" Grace asked incredulously. "Psychics?"

"Angels?" Rhetta returned, matching her tone.

"Psychics!" Grace repeated.

Rhetta rolled her eyes at Grace's persistent skepticism. Then something occurred to her. "Ask Earl," she said.

"What?"

"Ask Earl if psychics are for real," Rhetta said.

Grace's eyes widened. "You think?" she breathed.

"Sure. And he already knows about this case, so I'm betting he'll know if that psychic was real."

The door from the main office opened and Ham stuck his head in. "It's time to go to the scene. You okay, Grace? You wanna come?"

"Sure, Ham," Grace said, standing up. "I'm fine. Be out in a second."

"'Kay." He shut the door as she put out her cigarette, tucking the butt in her pocket.

"Are you sure you should go?" Rhetta asked. Grace turned to her in surprise, and Rhetta rushed to explain herself. "If Earl told you to stay away from the case, you have the perfect excuse to –"

"This is my job, Rhetta," Grace retorted angrily. "I don't want an excuse not to do my job. I've ignored Earl's advice before."

"Fine." Rhetta stood up. "Then I'm going, too."

Grace paused, her hand on the doorknob. "You sure? You told me that crime scene gave you nightmares."

"I can handle it," Rhetta said. Grace stared at her for a second longer, then shrugged and left the stairwell. Rhetta followed her out.

* * *

John had driven as fast as he could to catch up with Bobby and Dean. Sam had hung on for dear life, but he hadn't spoken a word since John had explained Bobby's sudden exit to him. Now they were in sight of the motor home, trucking along at a reasonable speed, and Sam still hadn't spoken. He just sat there, radiating anger like nothing had changed in four years.

Shrugging, John glanced sideways at him. "Give Bobby a call, see where he wants to stop for lunch." Sam gave him an irritated look and picked up John's phone. He searched up the number, then began fiddling with his own phone. "What are you doing?" John demanded.

"Programming Bobby's number into my phone. It's long since past time I did."

"I just asked you to call him."

"You just told me to call him, Dad. You never ask anyone to do anything."

"What is it with you, Sammy? Why can't you just take a simple request at face value instead of turning it into some big deal? I just want you to find out where we're stopping for lunch."

"I wouldn't even be in here if you could have let that stupid angel thing go," Sam said, and then he dialed the phone to get out of having to deal with John's response. John listened to Sam's side of the call, seething. "Yeah, Bobby. Dad wants to know where you plan to stop for lunch." Sam grimaced and looked over at his father. "He wants to know if you have a preference."

"What does Dean want?" John asked, and Sam relayed the question.

After a moment, he looked over at his father. "Dean's asleep."

John sighed. "Tell Bobby I'd like to get to Elgin tonight if we can swing it, so –"

"Elgin? What's in Elgin?"

"A friend," John replied shortly.

"That's informative. Why can't you ever answer a question with more than the bare minimum of information?"

"Why do you need more information?" John demanded.

"Because this crap 'need to know' shit got old when I was a teenager. Right now it's stupid. I only know of two other people I could contact right now if things got crazy, Pastor Jim and Caleb, and I don't have their numbers."

"You don't have Jim's number?" John asked skeptically.

Sam grimaced. "Okay, I remember his home number, I confess, but –"

"Bobby's waiting." Sam suddenly looked chagrined, and he spoke into the phone, apologizing to the other man. "Tell him I want to get to Kansas City if we can swing it." Sam passed that on, listened to whatever Bobby had to say, then hung up. He didn't say anything immediately.

John cleared his throat, and Sam turned to him, his expression still mutinous. "Caleb's numbers?" John said. He waited till Sam had his phone in hand and dictated them, first the home number, then the cell phone. "Jim's home you have, but you'd better have his cell phone, too." Sam started to close his phone after saving Jim's number in it, but John started speaking again, forestalling him. "Harvelle's Roadhouse is where we're going. Number there is 402-555-3913."

"Are we meeting someone?" Sam asked.

"Harvelle's is a hunter bar," John said. His face took on an oddly rueful cast. "And it's where you spent your first Christmas, actually."

"Seriously?" Sam said, looking startled. "So these people know us. Me and Dean, I mean."

"Yeah."

"Why didn't we ever go back, then?" Sam asked. It was a reasonable question. "You left us with everyone you trusted from time to time, did you not trust them?"

"It wasn't a lack of trust," John said. He didn't want Sam to think that of Ellen. "I had other reasons for not wanting to go back."

"What, Dad? Are we going to be safe with these people?"

"Yes, Sam. I trust Ellen."

"Ellen? It's a woman?"

"Ellen owns the place these days, runs it with her daughter Jo."

"But why didn't you ever go back, Dad? You must have had a reason."

"Yeah, there was a reason." Sam remained quiet. If he'd asked again, John wasn't sure he'd have told him, but he just waited. John sighed. "I got her husband killed. Jo's father."

"And she blames you?"

"I don't know. I didn't . . . I took the body back, told her what happened, and then I left."

"And you haven't been back?"

"Not once in twenty years."

"Why are we going now?"

"She has a kid working with her these days, I think you call them hackers. I want him to get Dean's information so deeply embedded in that insurance cover that I had dummied up for him that they won't even think about not paying the claims."

"Oh." Sam stared out the front window for a moment. "I should have woken you up, I guess, Dad. But I trust Castiel. I think he's got Dean's best interests at heart."

"You don't know him, and he's not human."

"No, he's not human, but he's not a monster. He's an angel."

John didn't like the adoration he saw in Sam's expression. "We don't know that for sure, Sam. We know he says he is, but that doesn't mean anything."

"He saved Dean," Sam exclaimed.

"We still don't actually know what happened."

"Dean feels safe with him," Sam pointed out.

"I'm not sure how much that means, Sam," John said.

"Dean was always way suspicious of people. He always listened to what you said about being cautious and careful, not taking things at face value, being paranoid." He cut off sharply and was silent for a second, and John wondered what he was thinking. "Anyway, he's a hunter, and he feels safe with him."

John didn't say anything for a moment, debating internally. Finally, he took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "You were raised a hunter, and you didn't pick up on Jessica."

Sam winced, but the reaction wasn't nearly as intense as John had expected. Maybe that's what he'd been thinking about, how if he'd been a little more suspicious, more paranoid, he might not have been taken in. "I was ignoring everything to do with hunting, Dad."

"And Dean was held by that monster for two months, tortured and abused. He would have trusted Ted Bundy if he'd let him out of that cage."

"Yeah, but he did more than just let him out. He protected him. He kept the demon from taking him away."

"That doesn't make him an angel, Sammy," John said. He shook his head. "Frankly, I'm not even sure he's sane, given some of the things he's told me."

"What are you talking about?"

"It doesn't matter. I'm just not sure I really believe in angels."

"Why not? You believe in demons."

"Demons are one thing, Sammy, angels are –" He shook his head, shrugging.

"If you accept the existence of absolute evil, demons, then you have to accept the possibility of absolute good."

"Where? In the world of fantasy or folklore?"

"Dad, our job is all about fantasy and folklore."

"Not fantasy, Sam," John said. "Folklore I'll give you, but fantasy, no."

"Other people would think it was fantasy, Dad."

John rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I know." He shook his head. "Okay, I think I know what got Bobby so ticked, and I should have noticed."

"What?"

"Dean always got really tense and miserable when we fought back when, and he was pissed at me after you left for making it impossible for you to be in contact with us. And he was pissed at you for leaving. That was the first time he went off by himself when I didn't send him. He didn't have a particular mission."

"Yeah, he did," Sam said, and John raised an eyebrow at him. "He was getting away from us."

John snorted. "We have to keep our fights out of Dean's sight and hearing. He doesn't cope well with it at the best of times."

"And these aren't the best of times," Sam agreed. "Okay. I will if you will."

John bit back on the immediate irritation that remark called up. This might prove challenging.


	7. Chapter 7

_Author's note to Hypnotic Doll: I mentioned in earlier notes that this has a minor crossover to_ Saving Grace _, the TV show with Holly Hunter. I suggested that those not familiar with the show give the Wikipedia page a quick glance. Grace is the main character of the show, Rhetta is her best friend, and Earl is the angel who is trying to save Grace's soul, hence the name_ Saving Grace _. So yes, both Grace and Rhetta know that Earl is an angel. You still might want to give that page a glance._

* * *

 **Chapter 7**

Denson stopped in the doorway to the table room. The walls were a matte black, just as they had been in the unfinished house in Graysville, with the same red symbols. The floor was covered with that ubiquitous beige carpeting that one finds in cheap office buildings, but he could only tell that because of the four inch square imprints that clearly marked the legs of the table. Otherwise, the floor had been saturated with blood to varying degrees, and had dried black. He could see concrete through the carpet where pieces had been cut out for testing, and the concrete itself was stained. Melissa looked sick to her stomach, but he couldn't blame her. There was blood on the ceiling here, too. The smell, even after more than a month, was almost overpowering.

"How many blood types did you find?" he asked.

"Six distinct types." This was Rhetta Rodriguez, the forensic scientist who had come along, he thought, as moral support for Detective Hanadarko. "I've processed them for DNA, but unless we get samples to match, that doesn't tell us much."

"We assumed that some kind of table was placed here," Handarko said, gesturing at the four clean imprints in the carpet. "But there's no security cameras, nothing to tell us what went on." She seemed remarkably composed.

"We've recovered the table along with most of the large equipment, but much of it has been badly damaged by the fire the unsub lit to cover his escape."

"Large equipment?"

Denson figured they wouldn't be much help if he kept them in the dark. Many of his colleagues would shut them out, but he didn't usually work that way if he could help it. "The situation as we've pieced it together is this. A man calling himself Azazel and claiming to be a demon abducted Dean Winchester in Beatrice, Nebraska on September 4th."

"A demon?" Hanadarko repeated, and she gave her colleagues an amused look. Rodriguez looked anything but amused, and Dewey just looked grim. "That's right up there with psychics."

Denson nodded. He couldn't blame her for the skepticism, or for the attempt at gallows humor. This couldn't be an easy situation for her. "By the chronology he gave us, this would be the second place he was held." There was a door on the opposite wall from the entrance they'd used. "What's through there?" he asked.

"Another, smaller office," Dewey said. "More blood was found in there, but nothing like the amount in here."

Denson walked through into the smaller space. The smell in here was fainter, and spoke of fear and human waste. "This must be where he was kept," Denson said.

Melissa walked forward and squatted by the bloodstains. "The mattress was here, no doubt, and you can see, here and here, the hash marks left by blood seeping through the mattress and into the carpet around the bars of the cage."

"Cage?" Hanadarko exclaimed.

Melissa looked up. "Long enough to lie down in, tall enough to sit up in, and just about a foot wider than his body."

"Son of a bitch," Hanadarko muttered. Rodriguez looked sick.

"Didn't he say the box was kept in the room with him?" Melissa asked, rising to her feet and scanning the walls.

Denson nodded. "But it's been more than a month, maybe close to two months. There won't be any –"

"There's a dent in this wall," Melissa said, striding across the room. "At about the height of the box's lid." Leaning close, she scrutinized the surface of the painted plasterboard. "There are flecks of paint that don't match the wall. I'll bet Tommy could match it to what's left on the box."

"I imagine so," Denson said. "Good work, Agent Haynes."

"What box?" Hanadarko asked.

"When his captors moved him from place to place, they put him in a coffin-sized box, restrained pretty firmly from the look of it."

"Given how readily he got out of my handcuffs, I'm not surprised," Hanadarko said.

"How much time did you spend with him?" Denson asked.

"He showed up at the bar sometime in the evening, after he beat Butch and I beat him, we played some drinking games and he –"

"He's that guy?" Dewey interjected, his eyes widening. "I mean, I knew he looked familiar, but I couldn't place him."

Hanadarko nodded. "He was bored stiff by the football game we were watching, and he suggested alternate sports. He followed me to my house in his car, and we partied all night. I was off work the next day, didn't have any important obligations, so we spent the next day together, then he left in the morning on Sunday."

"Did he mention his family at all?"

"Sure," Hanadarko said, nodding. "Something about a genius brother, and I know he said something about having to meet his father or there'd be hell to pay."

"He told me his brother was a total geek," Rodriguez said, her eyes deep with memory. "I remember him telling me that Sammy might like my line of work."

Denson blinked. "I almost forgot. If you're Rhetta, then Dean asked me to say hi to you, too." Rodriguez' eyes widened and she turned right around. Denson realized that he probably should have given her that message privately, but it was too late now. "Is there anything else you can tell me about Dean?"

"Most of what I know about him is probably irrelevant," Hanadarko said. "Unless you think it's somehow important that he's not into bondage."

"I doubt it," Denson said with a straight face, but from the set of her shoulders, he suspected it might be a good thing that Haynes was still gathering samples. "I take it you didn't do much talking."

"Actually, we talked a lot, but none of was really important," she said. "We talked about movies and previous partners, favorite foods, that kind of thing. He talked a little about his brother, and it was clear he doted on the kid, but I didn't get much more than that. More the feeling he was glad to have a little time to himself. We basically had fun." She shrugged, a half-grin on her face. "A lot of fun."

"I see." Denson's phone rang and he picked it up. It was the local office's evidence team reporting that they were five minutes away. "FBI evidence retrieval will be here shortly," he said. "I'm sure they'll appreciate your help, Dr. Rodriguez."

Rodriguez nodded without turning around and went back out into the kill room.

"Did Dean witness the murders?" Hanadarko asked.

"Not from what he said," Denson replied. "He told us he never saw any person other than the man who called himself Azazel."

"Do you have any information that would identify him?"

"Oh, we know who he is, a dentist named Andrew Sean Munn. He showed no signs of aberrant behavior prior to his disappearance back in August, but his fingerprints have been found at the last two sites, and he matches the description Dean gave of his captor."

"Did you show him a photo?"

"Actually, no. He was barely capable of being interviewed at the end of his time in the hospital. I might have shown him a photo towards the end of our interview, but it wasn't possible."

Hanadarko stared at him for a moment, clearly assessing reasons why that might not have been possible. "How is he?"

"We had lunch with him yesterday. He –"

"You had lunch with him?" Hanadarko asked, raising her eyebrows. She exchanged a look with Dewey.

"At his invitation," Denson said. "He was actually quite insistent. If he's this irrepressible after two months of torture and an additional month in the hospital, I can't imagine what he was like when you knew him."

"We've described him as having enough charisma for three people," Melissa said.

"He had that," Dewey said with feeling. "He even had Butch laughing over how badly he beat him at pool."

"I didn't notice anything in particular," Hanadarko said.

Denson did not snort, and he gave Haynes a stern look when he saw her eyebrows go up. Hanadarko had more than her fair share of charisma, too. Dewey noticed the interplay, and then he nodded at Denson. Clearly he got it. "The short answer to your question is that he's kind of fragile." He took a deep breath and reached into his file. "This is what he looked like in the hospital." He selected a photo that only showed him from the shoulders up and handed it to her.

Hanadarko took it and her eyes widened. "He looks terrible."

"And that was taken three days ago," Denson said. "But when I say fragile, I mean both physically and emotionally. He's going to be a long time in recovering from this."

"No kidding," Hanadarko said, handing back the photo. "But his family's with him?"

"I don't think you could pry them away with a crowbar," Denson said.

"That's the way it should be," she said.

Denson wholeheartedly agreed, he just hoped that his suspicions about connections between Dean's family and his attackers were unfounded. "So, what's the time frame on this?"

* * *

Having parked, Bobby walked back through the motor home to wake Dean. He was frankly surprised and faintly worried that the kid hadn't woken yet on his own. He'd been sleeping for hours since breakfast. It was almost two, and since he'd slept the night through, that just seemed like a long nap. He stepped into the back room and found the angel standing at the foot of the bed, watching Dean, just as Sam had described him in the night. He glanced over at Bobby, nodded, and vanished with that sound of wings. Bobby wondered what that meant. Did he have wings that hid inside his trench coat, like in that weird John Travolta movie? Had he flown away, or had the similarity of that sound to wings simply given rise to the legend that angels had wings?

He shook his head. It didn't much matter at the moment. He stepped a few feet further into the bedroom, but before he even touched Dean, the kid started blinking. "Where are we?" he asked.

"Kansas City," Bobby replied. "Time for lunch."

They both heard the door open, and the RV shook as John and Sam got on board. First John, then Sam pushed their way into the bedroom, which cramped that tiny space down to nothing. Dean's eyes went wide, and Bobby saw his shoulders hunch down. Before Bobby could even speak, though, Sam shoved past his father to stand beside the bed so as to clear the doorway. "I need to check him for seepage or anything, so get out so there's a little space." As he spoke, he opened the windows in the wall next to him.

"Sammy –" John started, sounding irritated.

Bobby took matters into his own hands, giving John a shove. "Let's go get us a table. We can talk to Dean in the restaurant." John must have heard the warning tone in his voice, because he gave way. Bobby pulled the fanfold door shut as they went and locked the outer door behind them. "If you and that youngest boy of yours don't start behaving yourselves, I'm going to –"

"We're working on it, Bobby," John growled. "If you thought you were being subtle, you were mistaken."

"Good," Bobby snapped. It took a few minutes for them to be seated, and John placed orders for all three Winchesters. After several minutes awkward small talk, Bobby cleared his throat. "What're you planning to do when we get to my place?"

"Well, that panic room of yours has to be finished by now, right?"

Bobby gave him a dour look. "I just had to tell you about it, didn't I?" he said resignedly. "What of it?"

"I figured we could stash Dean there while I try to find this demon and exterminate it."

Bobby blinked at him. "You want to stash Dean in the panic room? What if Dean don't want to be stashed in the panic room?"

"He'll do what I tell him," John said, his eyes narrowing at this challenge to his authority. John's tendency to assert dominance over everyone in his vicinity was one of the reasons Bobby had stopped wanting to work with him. His boys got it more than anyone, and Dean most of all.

"Oh he will, will he?" Bobby growled. "You ever give the slightest thought to what that will mean?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," John said.

"My God, you never thought about it at all."

"Are you saying we can't use your panic room?" John demanded.

"Hell, no, I'm not saying that, but it's a panic room, John, not a living space. It's a little box underground with dark walls, no windows and no natural light. Somehow I don't think that's what Dean's going to want at this point."

"He needs to be safe, Bobby," John said, his voice low and intense. "And I can't take him with me hunting that demon. Hell, I can't take Sam with me. God knows what might happen."

* * *

Dean approached the table that had been pointed out to them, Sammy hanging back to talk to the waiter. He was probably checking to make sure Dad hadn't ordered him anything too artery-clogging. A guy might think Sammy wanted to live forever. Dad and Bobby were sitting in a booth, and there was a fake decorative planter at the top of the partition between Bobby's back and the walkway. He could hear them speaking from a ways off, but it was a mumble of male voices. Then he abruptly got close enough to hear words.

"I get that, John," Bobby said. "But I don't think the panic room is the answer. Dean got claustrophobic in the MRI." Dean paused to listen to what they were saying. What panic room? And what did Dean's thoroughly embarrassing attack of claustrophobia have to do with anything?

"It's not that small a space, Bobby," Dad protested.

"Not as small as an MRI machine isn't exactly a ringing endorsement, John. It's a boiler, hollowed out, crusted with salt and otherwise untreated. The walls are nearly black. Hell, none of my house is out of _Better Homes and Gardens,_ but piles of books, dust and clutter beats the hell out of an underground room that's ten foot by ten foot and lit by a battery powered lamp."

"He'll be safe there," Dad said. "And we have to keep Dean safe. He'll understand that."

"Yeah, he'd be safe, but that room is meant for hiding in, not living in."

Dean realized that he was shaking. He didn't like the sound of what he was hearing, but he didn't know if he could stand up to Dad's insistence. He couldn't bring himself to move to bring the conversation to an end.

"It's just till I kill the demon."

"You have any bright ideas about that, John? Because last I heard, you can't kill demons."

"Dean? Is something wrong?" Sam put a gentle hand on his shoulder, and both Dad and Bobby fell silent. "Dean, you're shaking. Are you okay? Does something hurt?"

Dad got up and came around the partition and Dean didn't think, he didn't consider, he just reacted. He winced away from his father, not meeting his eyes.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

John wanted to shoot someone. How could they have been so stupid as to talk that openly when Dean could come upon them unaware? He leapt up and went around the end of the booth to find Dean standing there like a deer caught in headlights. "Dean, what is –" He broke off because Dean actually flinched away from him, turning into Sam's body for comfort.

"What did you do?" Sam demanded, putting his arm around Dean and leading him over to an empty table. He got his brother to sit down and knelt in front of him. "Dean, are you okay?"

Dean sagged in the chair, then put his head down. The waitress came back with their drinks at that moment, and paused, seeming startled by Dean sitting at the table and the rest of them gathered around awkwardly. John drew her aside and said, "Do you mind if we switch tables? My son's having claustrophobia issues, and I think the booth might be a little too confining for him."

"No, of course not," she said. "Let me get your silverware for you."

"We've got that, thanks," John said, giving Bobby a nod. He started shifting the napkins and silverware over. "If you could just . . . I'm afraid he'll be embarrassed."

She smiled at him and put the drinks down on the table in the booth. "Your food should be up shortly," she said before she went away, taking the tray with her. John moved the drinks, and by the time their new table was set up, Dean was a little calmer. Sam started telling a funny story about his first year of college and refused to be deterred from it. Since it was obviously letting Dean relax a bit, John stopped trying.

The waitress delivered their food, and once she'd gone, Dean cleared his throat. "I'm not hiding in a hole underground," he said, his voice less than steady.

"We can talk about it later," John said.

"No," Dean said emphatically. "I'm not hiding in a hole in the ground."

"We can –"

"No." Dean's voice was increasing in volume. John opened his mouth, and Dean shook his head sharply. "No!"

"I was just going to say we can discuss ways to keep you safe later."

Dean took in a shaky breath. "Just so long as it doesn't include me living in a hole in the ground."

"I would never put you in a hole in the ground, Dean," John said reaching out to squeeze his son's hand.

"And I would never let him," Sam said, giving John a dark look.

"Okay, a ten by ten boiler underground. Whatever. I'm not living where there are no windows."

"No, you're not," Sam said firmly, his eyes on John's. "We'll find another option." John held onto his temper by teeth and toenails. They could talk about it when Dean wasn't around.

Then Dean turned to Sam. "Promise?" he said pathetically.

Sam turned towards his brother. "I promise," he replied in a solemn voice. Dean smiled at him weakly, and Sam reached out and squeezed his shoulder. John closed his eyes. He was screwed. He'd have to fight both his sons to get Dean into the panic room, and probably Bobby, too. Heaven knew what the angel would think if he decided to get involved.

It took longer than John would have preferred to get out of the restaurant. Dean dawdled over his food, eating very slowly. Every time John tried to suggest that Dean finish his lunch in the RV, Sam gave him a challenging glare, and John finally gave up. They could lollygag as much as they wanted. He wasn't going to try to hurry them.

However, the reason for the delay became apparent when Dean finally rose and they headed towards the RV. Bobby had gone ahead to open the door, Sam was fussing along beside his brother, which Dean was putting up with for whatever reason. Then, however, with the door open and the lowest step extended down to the proper position, Dean stopped dead, staring into the dim motor home. Sam stopped a step further on and turned towards his brother, his brows drawn together. "What is it, Dean?"

"I'm not ready to be shut back in there again," he said. "Not for the next however many hours. Is there somewhere we can go, somewhere open?"

"Dean, we need to get moving. I'd like to get to tonight's stop as early as possible." John would really rather not arrive when the bar was full up, as it was like to be on a Friday night.

Sam glared at him, but Dean hardly seemed to notice. He turned around and gazed into John's eyes with an anxiety that was painful to witness. "I know, Dad, and if you insist on going on right away, I'll try, but I don't think I can do it."

In the face of that statement and with Sam looking at him like he was some kind of ogre, John couldn't force the issue. He sighed. "Bobby, you know of any place within a short drive that would fit the bill? A park or something?"

Bobby shrugged, but Sam said, "Just one minute. I'll look it up." He darted into the motor home, his haste making the whole thing bounce. Within a couple of seconds he'd returned with the slim black object. He flipped it open and started tapping. John had no idea what he could do with that thing to find a nearby location that would allow Dean to wander freely in an open space. Shaking his head, he left Bobby and Sam with Dean and went back into the restaurant.

The hostess looked up as he entered, and she smiled. "You fellows forget something?" she asked.

"No, I was just wondering if you could recommend a park or, I don't know, a nature preserve. One of my sons wants to take a walk before we close ourselves into the vehicles for the next four hours."

"Well, there's a couple of places, but I'd recommend Powell Gardens. I took my grandnephew there a couple of months ago, and it was fascinating."

"Where is that?"

They got bogged down in her trying to give directions, and before she'd finished drawing her map, Sam walked into the room with his laptop in hand. He looked down at the map and grinned with an edge of amusement. "Powell Gardens?" he asked, and they both nodded. He put the computer down on the counter and turned it so John and the hostess could both see it. "Here, Google maps has directions and everything."

The hostess took one look at John's face and made herself scarce. "Google maps?" John asked.

"You can get directions to and from anywhere in the continental US using Google maps, Dad," Sam said with more than a hint of condescension in his tone. "I found it a while ago and was just waiting because I figured you'd gone to the bathroom, but Bobby told me he thought you'd come in to ask for suggestions."

John took a deep breath and reminded himself that all parents were having this experience with their children and technology. It didn't actually help much. He controlled his irritation, however, and shoved a piece of paper at Sam. "Okay, write that down for me and let's get moving."

For once, Sam seemed to figure out he should control his triumph, and he simply bent to writing. Somehow John had figured that once he'd revealed the secret of their life to Sam, all the problems would have gone away. That didn't seem to be the case, however.

Sam gave him the handwritten directions, and John blinked at it. "What's this?" he asked, pointing to the numbers along the right side on level with each instruction.

"Mileage," Sam said. "It makes it easier, so you know when you've gone too far."

John nodded, refrained from telling his son that he was teaching his father to suck eggs, and they went back out to the parking lot. Dean was still outside the motor home. "You all ready?" Bobby called.

"Sure," John said. "Where do you want to ride, Dean?"

"Can I . . . I'd love a spin in your truck, Dad," Dean said.

"How far is this place?" John asked Sam, glancing down at the page in his hand and trying to do the math in his head.

"This says it's about forty minutes, but that doesn't usually assume heavy traffic."

John grimaced. "I'm not sure you can sit up that long, son," John said. "Not and be able to take a walk after."

Dean sighed and glanced at the RV.

"You know, Dean," Sam said. "The front passenger seat does recline."

Dean looked over at his brother. "It does?"

"Yup. And the windows up there are wrap-around. You could sit up there if you wanted, couldn't he, Bobby?"

"Don't see why not."

"And I can make some food for us to take with us on our walk."

"Okay then, it's settled," John said. "Let's get a move on."

* * *

John got more anxious the further they got into the nature trail. Bobby just figured that if Dean was too tired to walk back, they'd send Sam back to the RV for the wheelchair he'd picked up in Birmingham in case of need. When the boys had pulled ahead a little and were out of view in the trees, Bobby leaned close. "John, Sam'll run back for the wheelchair if we need it. Calm down."

"I am calm," John said with palpable untruth. "I don't like them getting out of sight like this." He picked up speed and Bobby kept up with him, aware that John was overreacting just a little.

When they reached them, Dean had settled down on a bench in a broad clearing. He was watching Sam pace. "Are you sure?" he asked.

"I think it's the only way," Sam said.

"What's the only way?" John asked.

Sam turned towards them, then he turned away and faced towards the sky. "Castiel!" he called. "Can you come here?"

"There is no need to yell, Sam," Castiel said, walking out from among the trees. "I remain nearby as much as possible."

"Sorry," Sam said, looking mildly abashed. "Do you remember what you said when I asked how I could be sure you weren't a demon?"

Castiel's brow furrowed, then he pursed his lips. "I am not a performing beast," he said curtly, and then he turned to go.

"What did he say?" John asked, and Castiel paused, his back still turned.

"That there were things he could do to prove himself, but that they would interfere with the electricity in the hospital."

John took a step towards the angel. "Why won't you prove yourself, then? There's no electricity here for a fair distance, and none of what there is would be vital moment to moment, I shouldn't think."

Castiel turned back, his eyes narrowed. "I have already been through this once."

"Not with me," John said. The angel's jaw set. Fortunately for everyone's temper, Dean decided to speak up just then.

"Hey, Cas?" Castiel's attention shifted, and his expression softened. "I'd sure like to see whatever you'd do to prove you were an angel. Hallucination or not, you saved my life."

Castiel stepped toward Dean. "I am not a hallucination, Dean," he said, and Bobby noticed a distinct difference in his tone when he spoke to Dean as opposed to Sam and John. "What is it they say in Christmas pageants? Fear not?"

"Sure," Dean said. "Why?"

"I do not wish you to be afraid. I am a soldier. My appearance is meant to be awe-inspiring."

"Then the trench coat doesn't cut it, dude," Dean said with a faint grin.

"It makes me look like a holy tax accountant?" Castiel asked with an odd look in his eyes.

"Yeah, exactly." Dean's grin was more real now.

Castiel closed his eyes, and then he straightened, his eyes opening as thunder and lightning suddenly crashed through the local area. As in the area within a hundred feet of the angel. Shadowy wings opened up and spread wide, from one side of the clearing to the other, a good fifty feet. He looked, in that moment, every inch the warrior of light. Then the wings faded, the electrical disturbance dissipated, and he was once more the holy tax accountant. Dean looked impressed and a little alarmed, Sam looked awed, and John looked . . . inscrutable.

"I hope that is sufficient proof," Castiel said. "I dare not do anything more substantial for fear of drawing unwanted attention. I am 'off the reservation,' and if my doings were noticed, I would be severely punished. Simply being in a vessel would be enough to merit death were my participation not necessary for what is to come."

"What is to come?" Dean asked. "Are you some kind of fortune teller?" John made a weird gesture, like he was trying to cut the angel off. Bobby was going to have to talk to John later if he was keeping things from him.

The angel, however, didn't seem to notice John at all. "It is more complicated than that, Dean. I cannot explain now. In fact, now I must go."

"Cas?" Sam said, and the angel turned towards him. "Thanks."

Castiel nodded, then he was gone. Silence fell in the clearing, and Bobby realized that even the animals and bugs were being quiet. After a moment, Bobby spoke, making all three of his companions jump. "Well, I guess that answers that question."

"What question?" John demanded.

"I'd wondered if that sound of wings mislead people into believing that angels had wings, or if he was hiding them under that coat of his. I guess he has 'em, but he ain't hiding them under the coat."

"Sammy?" Dean said.

"Yeah?"

Dean shrugged and looked embarrassed. "Somebody said something about a wheelchair?"

"I'll run back and get it," Sam said, and he took off immediately.

"Sorry," Dean said. "I don't mean to be weak, but I just couldn't –"

John took two long steps towards his son and went down on one knee in front of him. "You are not weak," he said firmly, placing emphasis on each word. "You came out of that horror sane and yourself. That is not weakness, Dean."

"Freaking out about getting into the RV isn't strength," Dean said.

"It's not weakness, either, Dean."

"Well, then, what's weakness?" Dean demanded.

John didn't seem to have an answer to that. Bobby shrugged. "Sinking into catatonia, for one," he said. "Caleb went there, not for long, but he did go there. And how about going completely bug nuts? I did that for a while, and it was memorable."

"You went . . ." Dean shook his head as if the idea was unimaginable.

"I was institutionalized, Dean," Bobby said. "For about six months. Seriously nut fuck wacko."

"After what you've been through, it's amazing that you're coherent, much less that you flirt with everything female that you see."

Dean shook his head. "I don't. I saw at least three female dogs while we were walking through here, and I didn't flirt with a one."

Clearly serious conversation was over. John tried a little more, very awkwardly, but Dean talked determinedly about the movies he wanted to see as soon as he could. Bobby was about to step on John's foot when Sam came trotting up, pushing the chair. Dean climbed gratefully into it, whispering something to his brother as he did so. Sam's eyebrows went up, but he grinned. Then he took off like a bat out of hell, pushing Dean ahead of him at speeds heretofore unknown to wheelchairs.

"Damn it!" John exclaimed. "We need to talk about –"

"What, John?" Bobby asked. "How he's feeling?"

"What's wrong with that?" John asked defensively.

"Nothing, except that neither of you is good at talking about that. You got to let him go at his own pace, John, or you're going to spook him. He's freaked out enough. If his Dad – the great and terrible John Winchester – starts wanting to talk about feelings, he might just blow sky high."

"The great and terrible?" John repeated disdainfully.

"You're more widely known than you realize," Bobby said. "And you were always hard on those boys without bothering to explain your reasons. I know you had reasons, and good ones, and now Sam does, too, but the fact is, Dean will try to do what you tell him, whether it's good for him or not."

John gazed uneasily at him and didn't respond. When they got towards the front, they found Sam pushing Dean in circles in the parking lot, Dean whooping and hollering with glee. It was excessively silly and probably good for both of them. Dean made no objection to getting into the motor home this time, but he didn't want to go back to bed. He wanted to lie down on the front sofa that converted into Bobby's bed again. They got him settled and John went off to his truck.

By the time they got back on the highway, it was past five, and Bobby knew John had to be fuming. It was a good six hours to Elgin, and that assumed there weren't any traffic problems or road work.

Behind him, Sam and Dean started playing cards, and Bobby focused his mind on the road.

* * *

 _Just remember, reviews are love, and I am needy._


	9. Chapter 9

_Jay, thank you for your nice comments, but I'd like to point out two factors that you seem not to be considering: A) Most people don't post stories because it's fun to do all the work of writing them, editing them, and then formatting them for the website and posting them with no return on the endeavor. Comments sustain us, and keep us willing to put the work in. B) Authors don't mind getting comments even years after the story is fully posted, so the fact that you view completed stories as meaning you don't have to review . . . [Sad look.] *snif*. I still want to know if you liked it. *snif*  
_

 _As a note, I don't practice extortion as a general rule. My begging notes are really just that, begging. There was a circumstance a few months back where I might have seemed unpleasant to my readers, my reviews dried up to the merest trickle, and I was simply explaining that I'd rather get negative reviews than none at all. At least negative reviews mean someone's reading, not just clicking, going, "meh," and then moving on._

 ** _Thank you_** _to everyone who has reviewed! Maybe I don't say that often enough._

* * *

 **Chapter 9**

Gus was occupying the couch and Earl's lap when Grace got home from work. She dumped her stuff and put her gun in its cupboard then walked over, grabbed a couple of beers, handed one to Earl, then sat down in the chair, putting her feet up on the coffee table. "Hello, Earl."

"Hello, Grace. You went back to that office building again."

"I had to. I have a job, Earl, but you'll be glad to know the FBI is taking over the case."

"So you won't be involved anymore?" Earl asked, a curiously intent expression on his face.

"Not that simple," she said, taking a pull on the beer.

"How so?" Earl demanded.

"I know one of the victims," she said.

Earl's eyes widened. "Which one?"

"How much do you know about this case, Earl?" Grace asked.

"Which victim?" Earl asked insistently, leaning forward and partially displacing Gus, who groaned irritably.

"The only one who's still alive," Grace replied, watching her angel's expression to see how he reacted.

"You know Dean Winchester?" he asked intently.

"Pretty well, actually. He sat right there when we had breakfast."

Earl did the math in his head and stared at her. "You slept with Dean Winchester?" he exclaimed, sounding appalled. Gus gave up and got off the sofa.

Grace shrugged. "Sure. He was a blast. What's the problem, Earl? It's not like he was married or anything."

"No, but he's big, Grace," Earl said, his voice deeper and quieter than usual. "He's above my pay grade."

"What does that even mean? He's not some terrorist, is he? Out to destroy the world?"

Earl's jaw dropped, and he actually looked offended. "No! Quite the opposite, in fact."

Grace blinked and filed that information away, completely baffled as to what it could mean. "So, I've got a question."

"Okay," Earl said. "What?"

"Are psychics for real?"

"Some are. Some are just faking –"

"So there are real psychics?" Grace asked.

"Yes, Grace, I just told you that."

"So, was there a psychic involved in finding Dean?"

Earl's eyebrows went up. "Oh, I see. Yes, I believe there was."

"So Dean's family consulted a real psychic, and he or she helped them find Dean?"

Earl nodded slowly. "Yes, they did."

"But doesn't it say in the Bible that you shouldn't talk to psychics or something like that? Witches or psychics or –"

"I believe the correct translation was fortune teller, and I think that had more to do with looking too far forward and not paying attention to what's going on around you now." She shrugged. That sounded reasonable. "And the witches you run into are Wiccans, and they're just followers of a different road to God."

"Usually they talk about a goddess, I think."

"There's more than one path, Grace. The point is the journey." He shook his head. "Regardless, none of this is really relevant to our issues."

"I want to know more about this psychic," she reiterated.

"I've told you everything I know."

"I don't know," Grace said, narrowing her eyes. "Why should I believe any of this crap?"

Earl gave her a thoughtful look, then a hint of mischief lit his eyes. He reached down deep in his pocket and pulled out something shiny that jingled like keys. "Here, your friend Dean might want these back." Then he gave them a toss.

Grace put her hand up automatically and the keys landed in them, her fingers closing around the sharp edges. She gazed down at them in startlement. Two keys on a ring with a whistle. She recognized it instantly, but she couldn't believe it. "These are his?"

"Yeah."

"How am I supposed to give them back?" she asked. "How am I supposed to even explain that I have them?"

He shrugged and then he was gone. Grace stared at the space he'd occupied for a moment, then got up and went to her phone. She dialed the number without even thinking about it. "Hello?" said Rhetta's voice at the other end.

"Rhetta, get your ass over here," Grace said without prelude. She could hear squawking as she hung up. Then she started pacing. Within twenty minutes, there was a knock on her door. She jerked it open and yanked Rhetta inside.

"What is it?" Rhetta asked. "Did you talk to Earl?"

"I did," Grace said.

"So?" Rhetta demanded, but Grace didn't respond immediately. "Don't keep me in suspense. Are psychics for real?"

"Some are, some aren't," Grace said. "But that's not the big thing."

"That's not the big thing?" Rhetta repeated, and Grace shook her head, grinning. Rhetta bounced up and down. "Then what is?"

"He gave me something."

"What'd he give you?" Grace pulled the keys out of her pocket and dangled them in front of Rhetta, whose eyes widened. "Earl gave you a car?" she demanded, snatching the keys to examine them.

Grace rolled her eyes and went over to the fridge. She'd long since finished her beer. Raising the bottle above the door of the fridge, she said, "Want one?"

"Sure," Rhetta said absently. She was still looking the keys over minutely, as if expecting to find some angel dust on them or something. She looked up when Grace handed her the beer and took the keys out of her hand. "Earl gave you a car?" she repeated, her tone growing even more incredulous.

"No. These are Dean's keys."

Rhetta stared at her. "Dean's keys?"

Grace nodded and went to sit down on the couch, nudging Gus over slightly. "Earl gave them to me. Said that Dean might want them back."

Rhetta tilted her head thoughtfully. "Didn't Dean drive some kind of a –"

"A 1967 Chevy Impala," Grace interjected

Rhetta nodded appreciatively. "It was a nice car," she said contemplatively. After a moment, though, she sat forward. "But why did he give you Dean's keys?

"It was a whole thing," Grace said with a snort.

"A _thing_?" Grace shrugged. "What does that mean, a thing?"

"I told him I slept with Dean and he got all weirded out about it." Rhetta drew her brows together, looking puzzled. Grace snorted again. "I know. He said, 'you _slept_ with _Dean Winchester_?' Like that, like it was some kind of a big deal."

"Did he say why?"

"I'm getting to that. I pointed out that Dean's not married, not attached to anyone, and he said he knew that, but that he, that Dean, I mean, is above his pay grade."

Rhetta blinked at her. "Okay, he'd already said the case was above his pay grade – do you think that's why?"

"Maybe. I don't know." Grace shook her head. "So I asked him what that meant; I asked if Dean was some kind of terrorist or planning to destroy the world." She paused, waiting to see Rhetta's response.

"Oh that's likely," Rhetta growled, and Grace had to admit she had a point. Dean hadn't come across as the type. "So, what did Earl say?" Rhetta demanded when she still didn't say anything.

Grace leaned forward confidentially. "Without a pause, without even thinking about it, he said, 'No, the opposite.'"

"The opposite?" Rhetta repeated. "He's going to save the world?"

Grace shrugged, laughing. "I guess, but from what? Global warming?"

"So why'd it matter that you'd slept with him?" Rhetta wondered aloud.

"He didn't really explain," Grace said. She contemplated the cheerful, devil-may-care kid she'd spent a weekend with five years earlier. "I wish I could see him," she said, sighing. "I wonder where he is."

* * *

It was late when Bobby pulled the RV into the parking lot of the Roadhouse. John had stopped by the freeway for gas, but he hadn't wanted Bobby to wait for him, so it was just him and the boys. The lot was pretty full, so he drove around back to see if he could find enough space for a motor home. He parked next to Ellen's station wagon and shut the engine off.

Sam had put Dean to bed hours earlier, and Bobby hadn't seen either of them since. He hoped they were sleeping, but he walked back to the bedroom to check and stood in the doorway a moment. Sam was curled up as tight as a man his size could get, and Dean had an arm around him, cuddling him close. Bobby remembered seeing them like that when Dean couldn't have been more than eight, lying in a bed of blankets on his living room floor. Sam had been smaller than Dean back then.

Leaving them sleeping, he went to the side door and climbed down. Fresh air and a little walk would do him good. As he descended, the rear door of the Roadhouse opened and Ellen walked out, wiping her hands on a dish towel. "Excuse me, but you can't park back –" She broke off as she drew closer. "Bobby?"

"Hey Ellen," he said, stepping to the ground and closing the door behind himself.

"I'd heard you were out and about, but I sure as hell didn't expect you to show up here in a cheesy rental RV."

Bobby glanced back at the bright slogans and advertisements and shrugged. "It works," he said.

"Where's your car?"

"Birmingham," Bobby replied, and he had a sudden, amusing thought. "You want to see the cutest thing ever?" he asked. She raised her eyebrows, and he jerked his head towards the door behind him. "Follow me, and be real quiet." Looking puzzled, she shrugged and, when he opened the door, came after him without argument. He stepped far enough into the bedroom to let her peer in, and her eyes widened. Sam and Dean were both still asleep, but Dean had shifted slightly Now his forehead rested against the crown of Sam's head. Ellen stared for a moment, but Bobby watched her expression change from surprise and pleasure to anxious concern. She turned to him, brows knit in dismay. He jerked his head back towards the door, and they headed outside again.

"What in the hell has happened to him, Bobby?" she demanded. "He looks like shit. Where was he? And where's John?"

"He stopped for gas," Bobby said.

"So he's driving the truck?" Ellen asked and Bobby nodded.

The door opened behind Bobby, and Sam walked out, scratching his head. "Bobby, we stopped. Where . . ." He trailed off, staring at Ellen.

"Sam, this is Ellen Harvelle. Ellen, you remember Sam."

She was gazing up at him with a bemused expression. "Yeah, he was about two feet tall the last time I saw him, though."

Sam held out his hand to shake, and Bobby had the impression that he was uncomfortable. "Dad said we spent my first Christmas here," he said, glancing over at the building.

"How's Dean?" Bobby asked.

"Still asleep." Sam glanced around. "Where's Dad?"

"He stopped for gas."

"How long ago?"

"He'll be along, Sam, don't worry."

The rear door of the Roadhouse opened again, and Bobby heard Jo's voice. "Mom, you out here? Jacob's asking for you."

"Come on out here, Jo," Ellen called back.

Jo let the door fall shut behind her and walked over. "What's up, Mom?" She smiled at Bobby and glanced curiously at Sam.

"This here is Sam Winchester, John's younger son."

Jo walked forward and looked at Sam, her arms crossed, not putting her hand out when he did. "I'd heard you went to college."

Sam dropped his hand, looking puzzled. "I did. I graduated."

"And you came back to hunting?" She gave her mother a look that Bobby had no trouble understanding.

"I came back to help find Dean."

"Are you going back?" Jo asked, and Bobby didn't look at Sam. It was a question that nobody had asked so far, and Bobby genuinely didn't know the answer.

"Nope," Sam said. "I went, I saw and I conquered. I'm done."

Jo shot her mother another look, then held out her hand. "Nice to meet you. I was sorry to hear your brother was missing. Any news?"

"He's in the back of the RV," Sam said. "Sleeping."

The machine behind them shifted slightly, and Sam was already on his way inside when the screaming started. Bobby followed, but he got a sense that Ellen held Jo back. He retreated after a moment when it was clear that it had only been a nightmare and that Sam had the situation handled. When he got back outside, he groaned. Screams in an RV outside a bar – most places no one would want to get involved, or if they did, they'd call the police. But Harvelle's was a hunter's bar. Five guys and a woman were standing outside in various states of alarm, all of them with weapons at the ready. Bobby recognized all but one of them, a young black man.

He shut the door behind him and stepped down to ground level. "Everything's fine, folks. Just a nightmare."

Caleb stared at him, eyes widening. He holstered his pistol, giving the rental RV a dubious look. "Bobby, what –"

Everyone turned at that moment because a black truck pulled into the lot and parked behind the motor home. John was out of the cab like a shot. "What's going on here, Bobby?" he demanded, looking at all the guys with guns. "Caleb, how are you? Gordon, good to see you, now put that thing away before I hit you with it."

"Dean had a nightmare, and he got loud this time," Bobby said.

"Dean?" Caleb repeated, taking a step forward. "You found him?" Several of the others looked relieved as well, and Bobby was impressed. John really had left no stone unturned, and since he didn't ever talk to other hunters much, that was unexpected.

"Yeah," John said. "Sam and me found him." He turned to Bobby. "A nightmare?"

"I didn't stay, John," Bobby said quietly. "I figured Sam had it covered."

John looked at the motor home and nodded. "Probably right," he muttered.

At Ellen's prodding, Jo had started trying to gather up the other spectators and to guide them back into the bar, throwing a few irritated glances behind her. She clearly wanted to stay and find out what was happening. Caleb did stay, and no one disputed his right. He'd had as much contact with the boys growing up as Bobby'd had.

"Sam's back?" Caleb asked. "John, why didn't you call and tell me that Dean was okay? I've been searching."

John blinked at the other hunter, and Bobby felt a little guilty himself. "I'm sorry, Caleb," John said earnestly. "I haven't been thinking of anything but Dean for a while now."

"For a while?" Caleb repeated. "How long a while?"

"Since we found him." John shifted uncomfortably. "He's been in the hospital ever since, about six weeks now."

Caleb looked startled, but Ellen looked furious. "You've known where Dean was for six weeks now and you never called anybody?" she exclaimed.

"Six weeks in the hospital?" Caleb asked. "How bad off is he?"

Words seemed to fail John, so Bobby cleared his throat. "He's going to live, which wasn't altogether certain at the start," he said.

"What in hell happened to him?"

John grimaced and glanced towards the peanut gallery. Jo wasn't having much success in getting the others to go back inside. "I'll explain later."

Ellen nodded, though she still looked incensed, and Bobby knew that even if she forgave John for being preoccupied, she was going to be mad at him for a long time for not thinking of letting her know. She shot him an irritable look that drove that point home.

The door opened, and Sam stuck his head out. "Dad, you're back." He glanced around, seemingly made uneasy by the crowd. "Is everything okay out here?

"Sam, come on, you've got some people to meet," John said.

Sam grimaced and glanced behind him. "Maybe we should wait a –"

"Outta the way, sasquatch!" Dean growled from behind his brother, and Sam was suddenly hurtling forward. He stumbled a few feet away from the door to the RV and turned around, glaring at Dean. For his part, Dean glanced around at the people, and Bobby could see that he hadn't expected so many strangers. Being Dean, however, he simply spread his hands and said, "Ta daa!" Spotting Caleb, he grinned. "Hey, Caleb. How's it hanging?"

"Good to see you, kid," Caleb said, but his eyes were wide and anxious.

Fortunately, Dean didn't see this reaction. He was looking down. The steps hadn't been extended, and it was easy to see that he was finding the distance a little daunting. Before either Bobby or Sam could react, John hurried forward and unfolded the metal stairs from under the doorway. Then he stood straight beside the steps and held his hand up towards Dean. "Here, son, let me give you a hand."

"I'm good, Dad," Dean said, flushing. "Just give me a minute."

Bobby looked away from Dean's embarrassment and observed the expressions of all the faces of those who were watching. Most of these men and women either knew John or knew of him, and several of them had seen his manner with his sons in the past. They found John's current behavior more than a little unexpected, though Bobby thought that was foolish. They all clearly also thought Dean looked like crap.

Caleb grabbed Sam abruptly and pulled him into a tight hug, which Sam returned with interest.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

Aware of eyes on him from all directions, Dean let his father help him down from the RV to the ground. There didn't seem to be much point in resisting the inevitable, since if he'd tried to go down on his own, he'd probably have brained himself on the hard packed, frozen dirt of the parking lot. The night was so cold, Dean could feel the hair in his nostrils freezing. Controlling a shiver, he took a step towards where Caleb was hugging Sammy, but was pulled up short when his father abruptly threw something around him. He looked down and realized that his dad had actually taken off his own coat and draped it over his shoulders.

"Dad, I'm fine," Dean protested, trying to shrug the jacket off.

"You were shivering," his father retorted, and Dean scowled. "Come on, let's get you inside." He started hustling Dean along towards the rear entrance to the place.

"I want to say hi to Caleb."

"He'll come inside, too," John said.

Dean let himself be hurried along, reflecting that if he needed an extra layer, it was on the bottom, not the top. He did tend to get awfully cold lately. He'd thought it was just the hospital. Those places were always cold for some unknown reason, but he hadn't stopped. A girl with a very nice ass went ahead of them to open the door and Dean wanted to hit someone. He wasn't an invalid. He could open doors himself, he could even walk by himself. He stumbled on the threshold and his father had to steady him. Most of the time, anyway.

"You don't look to have changed much, John," the girl said.

"Thanks," Dad said. "You've grown a little."

"I would hope so. What was I, five?"

"Something like that," John said, and Dean wondered what they were talking about.

The girl got called over to the bar, and Dean looked around. "Dad, why is everyone staring at me?"

John glanced up and shrugged. "They all know who you are and that you've been missing."

Dean felt himself flush and turned his back to the room abruptly. "What do you mean, they all know I've been missing?" he demanded in a strangled whisper.

"I called Ellen for help," his father replied. "She gets information from all over the country, and I knew she would ask around."

"So you basically called the biggest hunter gossip in the hunter community?" Dean asked, his brows knit.

"Gossip, huh?" Dean froze at the sound of the deep, feminine voice behind him. "I like that." She came up even with him and put an arm around his shoulders, a smile taking the sting out of her sarcasm. "Come on, sweetheart, sit down over here. I'm Ellen, and I haven't seen you since you were about four or five years old."

"I didn't mean –"

"You meant that you were embarrassed to have the whole hunter community know you'd gone missing," she said, gently pushing him into a chair that gave him a view of all the exits. "I can understand that."

"Especially since I didn't even know there was a 'hunter community' till Dad and Bobby started talking about it at the hospital," Dean retorted, glaring at his father.

"We can talk about that later, son," John said, glancing around uneasily.

"What is this place, anyway?"

"Harvelle's Roadhouse," Bobby said. "It's a gathering place for hunters."

"You mean all these people here are hunters? And they all know about me?"

"Everybody knows about the Winchesters, kid," Caleb said, and Dean wanted to sink through the floor. "John's infamous, and he never shuts up about you boys."

"Dad talks about us?" Sam said, sounding startled. Dean had heard their father talking about Sammy, so it didn't come as quite so much of a surprise to him.

"Sure, I've heard all about how proud he is that you got into an Ivy League school, and how Dean's become a great hunter in his own right."

"Some great hunter," Dean muttered. He noticed how astounded Sam still looked as he sat down, and shook his head. "Dude, we may not have wanted you to go, Sammy, but that doesn't mean we weren't proud of the achievement." Sam immediately glanced over at Dad, who looked like he really wanted everyone to shut up about it.

Ellen settled herself in a chair across the table, looking over her shoulder towards the bar. Something about the way the angle of the light hit her face made her look about twenty years younger. She was beautiful anyway, but that glimpse showed him a woman who was positively stunning. As she turned back, Dean had a sudden flash of realization. "I know you!" he exclaimed, gazing at Ellen, who smiled at him.

"Of course, you know her, Dean," Dad said impatiently. "You and Sammy stayed here a couple of times."

Dean basically ignored this because his revelation was too powerful to ignore. "I remember you and . . . you had that really annoying little blond girl." At that moment, the girl with the nice ass showed up with a tray full of beers, and she shot Dean a look that could freeze alcohol. "That's you!" he said, looking up at her in astonishment. "You're the annoying little blond girl. Jo, right?"

Sam looked uncomfortable, and Jo's eyes narrowed, but everyone else at the table seemed to think it was a great joke. "Not so little anymore," Bobby said, pulling up a chair.

Ellen leaned back to look at her daughter, reaching up to touch her arm. "Honey, don't take it seriously. The last time he was here he was when he was about six, which puts you at about three."

"And he was a very serious little six-year-old," Bobby remarked, making Dean blink.

"You ain't kidding," Caleb said, grinning a little. "Always watching after Sammy – and John, too."

"Okay," Dean said, sitting up and trying to ignore the turn the conversation had taken. "Where's my beer?" he asked, glancing up at Jo. She put a brown bottle on the table in front of him, and he looked at it in consternation. "Root beer?" he demanded incredulously.

"I don't serve alcohol to men who look like they might just blow away in a strong wind," Jo retorted, and then she headed back across the bar to tend other customers.

"Hard-hearted hussy," Dean called after as she walked away. He looked disconsolately at his beverage, then shrugged and took a deep swallow. It was good root beer, and ice cold. Sammy should sort of approve. It was calories, and it was liquid, both things he kept trying to pour down Dean in quantities that would choke a horse.

"So, how are you feeling, Dean?" Caleb asked.

"Peachy," Dean said with a grin, and Caleb gave him a dirty look. "Okay, I'm tired, and I'm not as strong as I could be, but I'm alive and I'm with friends. Can't do much better than that, right?"

"Well said," Ellen replied, raising her beer bottle with a grin.

Dean sat back and hoped the conversation would go on without him. He was feeling a teensy bit overwhelmed by all the people. Strangers were still sneaking peeks at him, but most of the crowd had gone back to whatever they'd been doing. Dad was talking, explaining Dean's stay in the hospital in general terms. Evidently he didn't want the demon being public knowledge. Dean was good with that, and he could tell that Sam got the point, too. Explaining how Dean had come to be missing for two and a half months might get dicey after a while, but maybe they could just avoid the subject until some new exciting event occurred.

A couple of guys, a black man about five or so years older than Dean and a white guy with pale, curly hair, took up positions across from a target on the wall Dean was sitting against. He expected darts and figured he could probably handle that, but then the black guy pulled out an absolutely beautiful, elegantly proportioned throwing knife of matte black steel. Dean's heart rate suddenly jumped, and he froze in place, feeling rather like a rabbit facing a really large coyote. The black man raised the knife up over his shoulder and let fly. With a very solid thunk, the blade seated itself in the target, and Dean gave an involuntary jerk.

 _Searing fiery lines etched across his back, new designs to join the old. It couldn't be called slicing, it was too precise, too slow and studied. Azazel carved bas relief images into Dean's skin, and he couldn't stop him. It had been weeks . . ._

* * *

Sam saw Dean jerk, and then he saw the frozen immobility of his brother's body, the distance in his eyes, and he knew what it meant, but he didn't immediately know what had caused it. Then he heard a thunk, and glanced to his left to see a pair of graceful throwing knives side by side in a target about ten feet away from Dean's chair on the same wall.

No one else seemed to have noticed Dean's reaction yet, so he nudged Bobby and nodded towards Dean, then rose and crossed to the two men who were making use of the target. While a guy with sandy hair watched, a black man drew his hand back with a third knife that matched the other two and let it fly. Sam glanced back at Dean to see how he took it. He twitched when the blade hit home, but he didn't move otherwise. Bobby had gone over to his side and was squatting there, talking to him. Dad was on his way around the table.

The thrower walked over to the target and pulled the three knives out and started back to the throwing position. Sam walked right into their space. "Hi, I'm Sam Winchester," he said, putting his hand out.

The sandy-haired guy put his hand out. He had intense blue eyes and kind of a wacky manner. "Kubrick," he said, shaking Sam's hand.

The black man nodded and stuck out his hand. "Gordon Walker," he said. "I've met your dad, and I've heard a lot about you boys. Never figured on meeting you, though, college boy and all."

Sam shrugged. "Yeah, well, family comes first," he said, glancing back at the table again.

"Now, it's nice to meet you, but we're kind of in the middle of a game," Gordon said.

"I know," Sam said, grimacing. "That's actually kind of why I came over here."

Gordon chuckled and gave Sam a friendly buffet on the shoulder. "You can play winner, but it's Kubrick's turn."

Sam shook his head. "No, I was going to ask you to stop."

"Stop?" Gordon raised a supercilious eyebrow. "Now why would I do that?"

Sam sighed and glanced back at Dean. "My brother's been through a pretty hellish time involving sharp objects," he said, knowing full well that Dean would kill him if he found out about this later.

Gordon glanced over at the table, and his expression went rueful. "Yeah, okay, we can take this up again later," he said. "How is he?"

Sam shrugged. "Getting better," he said.

"He looks halfway to dead," Kubrick commented. "Has he always been a skinny guy?"

Sam snorted and shook his head. "Not hardly. He used to be shaped a lot like my dad." He nodded at both men. "Thanks." With that, he headed back over to see how Dean was doing.

* * *

Dean came to himself with a profound sense of something being very wrong. Something beyond the headache that pounded between his eyes. That was when he heard Bobby and his father discussing him. "I think we'd better take him back out to the RV," Bobby said.

"You want to try moving him through the room like this?" Dad asked. "Ten to one if we try to get him to his feet, he'll panic, and we don't want that."

"I'm good," Dean said, but his voice sounded wobbly. Both of them turned towards him in surprise. "What happened?"

"I think you had a flashback," Bobby said. "Here, have a swallow of this." He handed Dean a small glass, and Dean took a drink. He coughed. He really hadn't been expecting whisky. "Now, how do you feel?"

"Like an idiot," Dean replied. He glanced around, but they didn't appear to be the center of attention for the whole room. In fact both Ellen and Caleb had left the table. Dean grimaced as Bobby took the whisky away and replaced it with the root beer. "Did I do anything embarrassing?"

"What, you mean like foaming at the mouth?" Sam asked, grinning down at him, and Dean gulped, alarmed by that very idea. Sam shook his head. "Nope. Just froze in place, staring." His brows knit humorously. "I think Ellen thought you were coming on to her at first."

"Sam!" Dad growled. "If you can't be helpful, go away."

"He's fine, Dad," Dean said hastily, seeing Sam's anger on his face. "He's just trying to make me laugh."

Their father glared at Sam for a moment, and Sam glared back, but neither of them said anything. "You two, behave," Bobby ordered, and Dean glanced up at him with some amusement. "You want to go back out to the RV?" Bobby asked him.

"We only just got here," Dean protested.

"We're staying for a day or so, Dean," Dad said. "No need to feel like you're missing out."

Dean closed his eyes and let out a sigh. "I feel like crap," he said. "But I spend all my time in bed, and while I don't usually mind that, it's no fun when I'm alone or with sasquatch there. No offense."

"None taken," Sam replied, and he was smiling again. "I'd rather be sharing my bed with someone else, too, as it happens."

"Well, have I had enough to eat today, oh slave driver?" he asked his brother.

"No. Do you think you could eat?"

Dean shook his head. "Actually, all I want right now is a glass of water, about fifty aspirin, and somewhere soft to lie down."

"That can be arranged," Bobby said, and both Dad and Sam gave him such identical incredulous looks that Dean had to laugh. Bobby rolled his eyes. "I didn't mean the fifty aspirin part, you idjits."

"No aspirin at all, Bobby," Sam said earnestly. "It's really hard on the stomach. He's got perfectly good prescription meds that will –"

"Sam, shut up," Dean said, and his brother fell silent, staring at him. "Come here." Sam leaned closer, all innocence, so anxious and grave and worried that Dean's smack upside his head might have come out a little harder than he'd originally intended.

"Hey!" Sam exclaimed, leaning away. "What was that for?"

"For being a giant dork. And a girl."

* * *

John drew Bobby aside. "Am I overreacting to Sam?" he asked, and he could see Bobby's eyes widening at the question. "Bobby, you don't know how it's been," he said urgently. "I really can't tell sometimes."

"Yeah, John, you overreacted. Sam was just doing the gallows humor thing, and I think it was working for Dean."

"You think?" John repeated, not sure that was sufficient a guide in this circumstance.

"Well, it got kind of hard to tell once you two started in and Dean had to separate you," Bobby snapped, and John grimaced, looking away.

Ellen walked up. "You fellows heading out?" she asked.

"Actually, I was hoping you wouldn't mind us staying the night," John said, and Ellen's eyes widened.

"I got a couple of rooms in the back if you want 'em," she suggested.

"Bobby might take you up on that, but I want Dean out in the RV. We've got some heavy duty protections out there."

"You expecting trouble?"

John started to respond, but Bobby beat him to it. "It's John," he said sardonically. "Of course he's expecting trouble."

Ellen rolled her eyes. "I'm not asking if either of you is paranoid. You're hunters, that's part of the definition. Is there actual trouble coming?"

John glanced around. "Ellen, I am not talking about it here, in a roomful of hunters," he said in a low voice. "And we need to put –" His phone rang, and he picked it up to look at the screen. He grimaced when he saw that the number was blocked, but he answered the phone anyway. "Winchester," he said gruffly.

"Hullo, can I speak to Dean?" It was a female voice, unfamiliar, with a strong midwestern accent.

"Who is this?"

"I'm a friend of Dean's," she replied cheerily. "Who are you?"

"I'm his father," John said curtly.

"Cool," she said. "Can I talk to Dean?"

John mustered his patience. "May I tell him who's calling?" he asked sarcastically.

There was a smothered laugh in her voice when she replied. "Tell him it's Princess Little Feather."

John blinked and gave Bobby a dark look before turning towards Dean. He and Sam had come across to join them near the door. "There's a 'Princess Little Feather' on the phone for you," he said, handing it across to his elder son. Bobby snorted, and Sam looked slightly appalled. Ellen just chuckled.

Dean grinned broadly. "Seriously! Cool." He took the phone and turned away. "Grace, hey!" John knit his brows and tried to remember where he'd heard that name recently. He turned towards Sam. "Take your brother out to the RV. Keep a listen on the conversation and make sure nothing too weird comes up. I need to explain things to Ellen."

"Sure, Dad," Sam said, looking sober, and John put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed, trying to put his confidence and pride into the gesture. He didn't know how to express himself in any other way that Sam would believe. Sam's eyes widened, and he glanced at his father's hand. There was a bit of warmth and more confusion in his eyes when he looked back up to John's face, but he nodded. He went over to Dean and made sure his coat was zipped up tight and guided him outside.

John turned back to Ellen. "Is there somewhere where we can talk more privately?"

She glanced around the bar, then caught her daughter's eye and jerked her head towards the back. Jo nodded, looking a bit irritated but not unreasonably so. Ellen led the way towards the stairs. John knew the way already, from years gone by. Not much had changed. She'd repainted the walls of her living room, but the sofa and chairs were still the same. A lot of new pictures littered various flat surfaces. Jo's high school graduation, a few posed shots, some snapshots clearly taken while she was in college. "She didn't finish, did she?" John asked, picking up a framed photo of Jo in front of a college dormitory with three other girls.

Ellen snorted. "No, and now she's already trying to make Sam's return into part of her case for why she dropped out."

"You might point out that he only came back because his brother was missing," John said, putting the photo down and sighing. "He was all set to throw me out the door until I said that." He shrugged, turning back to face her. "I don't think she wants a reason like that to pull her into hunting."

"Next time she starts talking about it, I'll mention it. God knows if she'll even hear it, though." Ellen shook her head and walked over to a small table with a collection of liquor bottles on it. "Anything for you gentlemen?"

John walked over to the window while Bobby gently nudged Ellen aside with a remark that she served enough drinks. The sky was dark, not a star in sight, and this far from town, the light pollution wasn't bad enough to hide them. When he'd arrived, the stars had shown in patches, but now it was like there was a ceiling. Looked like a new storm had rolled in.

"Well, John, come over and sit down and tell me what's going on," Ellen said.

John grimaced and crossed to a chair, but he didn't sit down, he leaned against the back of it. He couldn't manage ease at the moment, no matter how hard he tried. "It was a demon, Ellen, _the_ demon."

Ellen blinked at him. "The demon?" she repeated, and then her eyes widened. "You mean the one –" She broke off, and John got the impression she wasn't saying what was in her mind for fear of upsetting or hurting him. It was no wonder. There'd been a time when he couldn't bear to hear her name spoken aloud, and Ellen hadn't seen him much since then.

"The one who killed Mary," he said. "He abducted Dean and tortured him for more than two months." His voice sounded unnaturally calm. He had to decide how much to tell her. Swallowing an uncomfortable lump in his throat, John turned away again towards the window. He was reasonably certain that Bobby wouldn't fill in the blanks till he'd made his intentions clear. He didn't know if he had the right to pull her into something this big.

"John?" Bobby said with a note in his voice that made John turn towards him. Bobby pointed towards the stairs, over behind Ellen, and John turned the rest of the way around and stared in surprise. He'd never done this before.

"What is it?" Ellen asked, turning in her chair. She leapt up with an exclamation when she saw the figure standing behind her.

"Hello, Ellen," Castiel said. "It is good to see you again."

"Again?" She glanced at John and Bobby. "Have we met?"

"Not yet." Both Bobby and Ellen seemed a bit taken aback by this, but John just rubbed his forehead tiredly. He hated it when Castiel talked about the time travel thing. "But I have been here before," Castiel went on, and John looked up. "I have been observing Dean since his conception, and he spent time here."

"Ellen this is Dean's stalker angel, Castiel," John said with a bite in his voice that he couldn't quite help. "Castiel, meet Ellen."


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

"I am not a stalker, John," Castiel said in a tone of mild reproof.

John grimaced because he could tell that Castiel was disturbed by the description. "Sorry, I'm just a little . . ."

"I understand," Castiel replied when John didn't finish, and he nodded gravely. Turning his eyes towards Ellen, he said, "You should bring her into your confidence. She can help, and she will want to when she knows what the stakes are."

"John?" Ellen glanced back towards him, but otherwise kept her eyes on the intruder. "What is this guy?"

"My name is Castiel. I am an angel of the Lord," Castiel said. "And I am _not_ a holy tax accountant."

Ellen blinked at him, and John exchanged a startled look with Bobby. "Thanks, that's good to know," Ellen said uncertainly.

"You said that earlier. Where'd it come from?" Bobby asked, his brows raised.

"Dean," Castiel said without elaboration.

"That sounds like Dean," Bobby said dryly.

"Do you really think so?" Castiel said, and John's lip twitched into an unwilling grin at the angel's tone.

Bobby blinked. "Was that sarcasm?" he asked.

Castiel shrugged very slightly. "If you cannot tell, I feel no obligation to explain."

John couldn't repress the snort, and that caused both Bobby and the angel to turn towards him. "Sorry, you're just both – never mind." He shook his head. "You really think I should tell Ellen –"

"Everything," Castiel interjected. "You have kept enough secrets, John." The angel's eyes seemed to bore into him. "I have seen where that leads, and it is not pretty."

John knew, as the others couldn't, that Castiel meant that he had seen the actual results of John's own secret-keeping, and he swallowed uncomfortably. Some part of him wasn't capable of simply obeying the angel's instructions flat out, so he nodded. "I'll take that under advisement. Aren't you supposed to be with Dean?"

Castiel's eyes went distant briefly, and then he was back. "They are fine," he said. "Dean is speaking to someone called . . . Princess Little Feather."

Bobby just snorted. Ellen turned toward John. "Little Feather?"

"Grace?" John asked.

"Indeed. They are safe enough for now, and I will know if something changes."

"Is Sam asleep?"

"I do not believe so – it's not as easy for me to tell with Sam."

John nodded thoughtfully, but Ellen tilted her head. "Why not?"

"I cannot read Sam's thoughts as I can read those of other humans."

Neither Bobby nor John reacted to this intelligence, but Ellen's eyes widened. "You can read our thoughts?"

"I get scattered glimpses," Castiel said deprecatingly.

Bobby shrugged. "If it helps, I don't think he does it on purpose."

Castiel nodded once. "I could no more turn it off than you could turn off your sense of smell."

Bobby tilted his head thoughtfully. "That could be awfully convenient at times." Castiel sniffed the air lightly in Bobby's general direction and made a noncommittal grunt, and the implication was obvious. Bobby's jaw dropped and he glowered at the angel. "What is this? National 'Pick on Bobby' Day?"

Without missing a beat and with a totally deadpan expression, Castiel said, "That was in November."

For a moment, Bobby was speechless, but then he snorted. "Oh, I missed it, huh?"

Castiel allowed himself a slight smile. "Yes."

Ellen waved Bobby silent when he started to respond. "Okay, so you can read our thoughts. Why can't you read Sam's thoughts?"

"It is because of the demon blood," Castiel said, and an explosion of fury went off in John's head. He'd been researching the possibility, but he hadn't wanted to say anything to anyone yet, not till he was sure.

"What demon blood?" Bobby asked.

"Castiel!" John growled. He thought really hard at the angel about how he wanted to keep this mum until they'd had a chance to look at the implications.

Castiel turned to him, his blue eyes flashing coldly. "There are too many secrets, John. They serve no one but the enemy." John set his jaw and didn't respond. "You have suspected this," Castiel pointed out, causing both Bobby and Ellen to turn towards him in shock. John nodded reluctantly, and he saw Bobby's eyes go dark with thought. Castiel shrugged. "You were right. All of the children like Sam have been tainted."

"Children like Sam?" Ellen repeated, glancing at John and Bobby. When she saw the lack of surprise on their faces, she narrowed her eyes. "What is he talking about?"

Before John could frame a response, Castiel spoke again. "When Sam was six months old, he was visited by a demon." So far this was familiar to John, but he listened in silent concentration, certain that Castiel was going to reveal facts he had not yet discovered. "This demon fed him his own blood and killed Mary Winchester when she interrupted. There are other children who were polluted in this fashion by Azazel. Many of them are now in their twenty-second year of life and just coming into their powers."

John gulped. "Like Sam's visions?"

"Similar," Castiel replied.

"What visions?" Ellen demanded.

Glancing at John, though not for permission, more to gauge the level of his fury, Bobby answered the question. "Sam has premonitions."

Ellen's eyes sought John's, and he nodded with a grimace. "It's part of how we found Dean so fast once Sam got involved."

"Fast?" Ellen repeated.

"I picked Sam up on a Thursday, and Dean was in the hospital that Sunday," John said, and Ellen's eyes widened.

"What about these powers?" Bobby asked. "There are other kids out there having these visions?"

Castiel pursed his lips. "All of Azazel's special children have powers, but not all of the powers are like Sam's. It seems to be idiosyncratic. Max Miller has the ability to move objects with his mind. Ava Wilson has visions like Sam's. Scott Carey can electrocute with a touch. The twins, Anson Weems and Andy Gallagher have Jedi mind tricks." A cacophony erupted, and nobody's response to this was clear because they all demanded an explanation of the last statement at once. Castiel gave them all a puzzled look. "Is that not what it is called?" he asked. "'These are not the droids you are looking for,'" he said, mangling the quote with both diction and inflection.

They were all three silent for a moment, then Bobby cleared his throat. "I need a drink," he announced.

"I'm right there with you," Ellen said. "John?"

John nodded his assent and sank into a chair, more than a little stunned by the unexpected confirmation of his suspicions regarding Sam, and the news that Azazel's other victims had started developing these abilities made him exceedingly nervous.

"I would like a whisky," Castiel said.

"Angels drink?" Ellen asked.

"We can."

"The holy rollers would be surprised by that," Ellen remarked, rising to get their drinks. John snorted.

"What are holy rollers?" Castiel asked.

Ellen blinked for a moment then shrugged. "A bunch of holier than thou jerks who think drinking is against God's law, along with dancing, going to movies and listening to anything but Christian music."

Castiel stared at her for a moment, then said, "They believe that they are holier than me?"

Ellen shook her head. "No, they . . . it doesn't matter. They'd just be surprised to hear an angel of the Lord announce that angels are allowed to drink."

"I did not say we are allowed to drink," Castiel said, accepting the glass from Ellen. "I said that we are able."

"Oh," Ellen said, deflating slightly.

"Are you allowed to drink?" Bobby asked ironically.

"We are not forbidden to drink. We are not encouraged to engage in human activities, but the subject has not been addressed in many centuries."

"Huh." Bobby tilted his head. "What –"

"John," Castiel said, cutting Bobby off. "That will be your next most important task. All of Azazel's special children are in danger. Some of them will simply die upon the activation of their powers, some will be devastated by what their powers do to those they love, and all of them will be abducted by Azazel for his winner takes all gladiatorial games to be held at Cold Oak, Montana."

"That's pretty damned specific," Ellen said incredulously.

"I have inside information," Castiel replied serenely.

"Cas, I have to focus on my own kids," John said. "Sam and Dean –"

"Would go out of their way to help these other children," Castiel finished for him. He gave John an intent look. "I know this to be true."

John grimaced and turned away.

"How?" Ellen demanded. "You can't read Sam's thoughts, so how can you know what he'd do?"

Castiel gazed silently at her for a long moment, then sighed. "I know it from memories I have of events that have not yet taken place and which will now never take place."

"That sounds remarkably Star Trek-y and not very angelic," Ellen said.

"I do not know 'Star Trek' well," Castiel replied. "Regardless, angels can travel through time at need."

"Time travel?" Bobby repeated. "I believe in all sorts of weird things, but I have trouble buying a connection between angels and time travel." He glanced aside at John and seemed startled by his expression.

Castiel tipped his head to the side. "I could prove it to you, if you like, but that might risk changing the timeline yet again."

"Again?" Bobby said, giving him a startled look. "Are you saying that's already happened?"

"Are you sure you want to –" John ventured.

"No secrets, John," Castiel said, cutting him off. John privately thought that could be carried too far, but he didn't say anything.

"If the timeline has changed, why do you know about it?" Ellen asked curiously.

"I was part of the change," Castiel said. "Under orders from Heaven, I took Dean back to 1973 to seek intelligence regarding Azazel's plans."

"So Dean knows about this?" Bobby asked. "Why hasn't he said anything?"

"He does not," Castiel said. "It is a part of the future that may never happen."

"But you remember," Ellen said.

"I was in the past with memories of the future," Castiel replied. "Thus I retain access to those memories." She gave him a dubious look. "I am not human, Ellen. What I recall is occasionally confusing, but it is clear. And I remember Sam and Dean searching out as many of the special children as they could to help or stop them, depending on their actions. Max Miller is the most urgent that I am aware of. He has not yet killed, but he will."

John grimaced. That boy had looked so haunted, so damaged. "I did what I could for him."

"More is needed," Castiel said. "He is unstable and developing powers that make him a danger to himself and others."

Bobby shook his head. "Okay, say I accept this hypothesis that Azazel fed his blood to a whole stack of babies at the age of six months old. Why? What's the purpose?"

"It is a long story, very complex, and it will involve telling you things that none of you will want to accept." Castiel took a deep breath. "If you are already not certain that I tell the truth, I'm not sure it will do any good to go further. I do not wish to take your current disbelief and harden it into implacable denial."

"So, Sam and Dean saved Max Miller?" John asked.

"They did not," Castiel replied. "He committed suicide. In fact, Sam and Dean failed to save any of the special children in the end."

"Except Sam?" Ellen suggested.

"No, even he died," Castiel replied, "but he did not remain dead. There is much to tell. Would you rather I told it from the beginning – as much as I know – or that I give it to you in confusing pieces?"

John saw that there was much more to this tale than even he had heard. He leaned against the wall and crossed his arms because he didn't think he could do anything so tame as sitting. "Start from the beginning."

* * *

Sam had settled down on the RV's couch to read. He could hear Dean talking, and he knew he'd notice anything out of the ordinary, but he didn't really want to listen to Dean renewing his acquaintance with someone he called 'Princess Little-Feather.' It was embarrassing enough to know he remembered anyone fondly by that name.

"Sammy?" He looked up at Dean who was holding out the cell phone. "Here, keep her company for a minute while I –" He gestured towards the toilet and thrust the phone into Sam's unwilling hands.

Sam closed his eyes, took a deep breath and lifted the phone to his ear. "Princess Little-Feather?" he asked with a certain scorn in his tone.

"Actually it's Grace. Grace Hanadarko."

Sam blinked. The cop. He should have realized. "Oh, I see. Sorry, ma'am, I didn't realize who he was –"

"Ma'am?" she repeated incredulously. "I am not a ma'am."

"You were a police officer when Dean met you five years ago," Sam said. "And my father brought me up to respect women."

"Hmmm," she said, sounding amused. Then all amusement dropped out of her voice. "How is he, really?"

"Surely the FBI showed you the photographs," Sam said sourly. They hadn't shown him or his father, but they'd no doubt shown this woman who'd slept with Dean once five years back.

"Actually, no. I've seen two photos, one that was clearly taken before all this happened, and one of him in a hospital gown looking half-dead. My past . . . connection . . . is making it awkward for me to be involved in the investigation. For my whole unit, actually."

"Oh," Sam said. Now that she wasn't playing up the joke of Princess Little-Feather, she sounded kind of devastated. "He's not in great shape," he said grudgingly. "I mean, I know he was putting on a good show for you, but he's really tired." He grimaced. "And he had either a flashback or a panic attack not five minutes before you called. I'm not sure which. I don't suppose you could find an excuse to end the call soon? I need to change his dressings."

"You make him sound like a salad."

"That's what he said," Sam muttered. "He's got . . . he's been cut up bad, and he nearly died several times because of internal bleeding. He spent six weeks in the hospital, and they only just let him out yesterday."

"Don't you worry, I'll finish things up with him. I'm glad you and your dad are there for him."

Sam nodded. "So, um . . . ." He cast about for some conversational gambit. "Are you married or anything? Seeing anyone?"

"I see lots of people," Grace said with a laugh in her voice. "But the chances of me getting hitched are a million to one. How old are you, anyway? I remember Dean telling me about his younger brother, but I don't quite recall how old you were then."

"I was seventeen," Sam said. "And Dean told me all about you."

"When you were seventeen? That must have been educational."

"Yeah, kinda. Dean thought I was too straight-laced, so he was trying to . . . broaden my horizons, I guess."

"He should'a brought you to see me."

"I was seventeen."

"In a year."

Sam snorted. "I actually was pretty straight-laced."

"'Was'?" Grace asked.

"Okay, am," Sam admitted.

"I thought so," she said with a smothered laugh.

Dean walked out of the bathroom and grabbed the phone. "Sorry, Grace, didn't mean to pawn you off on Francis like that." Sam rolled his eyes. "So, how about some phone sex? It'd be the most action I've had in months." He paused and Sam looked back down at his book, really not wanting to hear either side of phone sex. Dean's next words kind of surprised him, though. "Oh, okay. No, I can see how that might be a conflict of interests . . . wait, you're working my case?" Sam looked up, not liking the tone. "Grace . . . no," Dean said, his voice quiet. She must have said something because a second later, Dean started talking louder and faster, his words stumbling as he kept changing his mind about what he wanted to say. "You've got to stay away – you don't know how dangerous – it's too . . . too –"

Sam put a hand on Dean's shoulder. "Dean, calm down."

Without even looking, Dean struck out and knocked Sam on his butt. His head hit the side of the RV, dazing him briefly. "Grace, stay away from this case," Dean yelled into the phone. "I can't . . . you stay away from the case! What Azazel would do . . ."

Sam levered himself up. "Dean, she's not really that involved in the case, calm –" He broke off sharply. Dean wasn't hearing him. The phone fell from his hand, and Dean was staring blankly at the window above the kitchen sink. Sam touched Dean's arm "Dean, it's –"

Dean flipped out the minute Sam touched him. Before he knew what was happening, he slammed into the wall above the couch and his head hit the window. He felt it give as stars filled his vision. "Dean –" he said, his voice weak, but a fist in his gut robbed him of breath and he slumped onto the sofa. He could feel the RV shaking as Dean retreated, but he couldn't tell which way his brother was going. That could be really bad. He tried to get up but just slid onto the floor.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

Bobby had kind of expected the angel to start with something about Sam's birth, or even the deal John had postulated his wife making ten years earlier; however, 'the beginning' for Castiel appeared to be the start of angelic interaction with their new brethren, the human race, however many thousand years ago that was. Bobby had protested. John had protested. Ellen had listened intently. And Castiel had assured them that the early relationship between angels and humans bore extreme relevance to Sam and Dean and the current situation. When it became clear he was going to explain it all no matter what they said, Bobby had pulled out a pad of paper and a pen to take notes.

Suddenly, though, in the middle of a fascinating explanation of the origin of angelic vessels, Castiel stopped speaking, and his eyes went darkly distant. "I must go to Dean," he said abruptly, and he was gone. John took off through the living room, paying no heed to either Ellen or Bobby as he tore through, knocking stuff over and things off tables and not seeming to care. He fairly flew through the bar and out the back door. Bobby followed, unwilling to leave John to handle things on his own. The man's temper was chancy at best. As he hustled through the bar, he heard Ellen calming people and encouraging them not to follow.

He slammed the back door open just in time to see John's rearview disappearing into the RV. As he reached the still-open door himself, he heard John exclaim. "Sam! Sammy, what happened?"

The scene inside told Bobby of narrowly avoided catastrophe. Castiel stood over Dean's prone body on the fold-out sofa bed. It seemed like Dean was okay – no blood, no obvious bruises – but he was limply unconscious. Sam was flopping a bit on the floor, and there was blood matting in his hair.

"What the hell just happened, Castiel?" John demanded angrily when Sam didn't immediately answer.

"I do not know, precisely," Castiel said. "I sensed Dean's panic, but I do not know its cause. I found him attempting to escape on foot."

"Escape from who?"

"I do not know," Castiel said, but before John could pursue the question further, Sam groaned from the floor, grabbing his father's full attention.

"Someone is speaking," Castiel observed, and Bobby saw the cell phone lying open on the floor. He reached in, took it, then closed the door with himself on the outside. They didn't need witnesses for that little scene, especially when no one here had ever seen Castiel before.

Bobby put the phone to his ear and heard a faintly frantic soliloquy on the other end. ". . . don't even have another number to call. Son of a . . . Denson would . . . where's my cell . . ."

"Hello?" he said.

"Hello!" she exclaimed. "Who are you? Where's Dean? Is he okay? Is Sam okay? What the hell happened?"

"We're not altogether sure," Bobby said. "Who's this, if I may ask?"

"My name is Grace Hanadarko."

"Oh, the Oklahoma cop lady," Bobby replied, nodding. Princess Little Feather was the cop? "I'm Bobby Singer, the sorry excuse for an uncle that's all these two boys have for family besides their daddy. So, introductions out of the way, what the hell happened?"

"Are Sam and Dean okay?"

"Dean is . . . sedated." He didn't know how else to describe the angel's whammy to a civilian, and unless he missed his guess, that was what had Dean so peacefully asleep just now. "Sam is out of it. Concussed, I'm pretty sure."

"Was there someone else there?" Grace asked.

"Why, did you hear anything like that?"

"No, but – Sam's concussed?"

"I didn't see any sign of anyone else," Bobby said. "Hang on." He muted the phone, then went back to the door of the motor home and opened it. "Cas?"

"Yes?"

"Was there anyone else here?" he asked. "Can you tell?"

"No," Sam said, and Bobby blinked, startled to see the kid awake and making sense. He was sitting in the booth in the kitchenette, letting John tend to the lacerations on the back of his head. "Dean had a panic attack and maybe a flashback, too. He flipped out, but it was just us."

"Who's on the phone?" John asked.

"Detective Hanadarko," Bobby replied. "AKA Princess Little-Feather. I'm finding out what happened from her side of things."

John nodded and Bobby closed the door. Unmuting the phone, he said, "No, there wasn't anyone else there. Dean just flipped out."

"Hell." She sounded upset. "Dean and me were just talking about old times, then he had to go take a leak so he handed me over to his brother to keep me company. Felt kind of like high school. Anyway, Sam asked me to cut things short, but I'm guessing I chose the wrong excuse."

"What excuse did you choose?"

"I said we should probably avoid too much conversation because I was working the case. People are usually reassured when they know that someone they know is investigating their case, so I figured it would help on some level."

"Balls!" Bobby muttered. "I can see where you'd think so, but . . . balls!"

"Care to expand on that a little?" she asked, sounding an odd mixture of amused and annoyed.

"Dean tried to convince Agent Denson – who he doesn't know from Adam – not to investigate the case because it's too dangerous for him," Bobby said. "Not only does he know you – and like you – but Agent Denson isn't a little bitty thing."

"Little bitty thing?" she repeated.

"Dean's words. And I know we're living in the twenty-first century and equal rights and all that, but –"

"No, I get it," Grace said. "I don't like it much, but I get it. So, you think he freaked out about me being involved in the case?"

"I'm sure of it," Bobby replied.

"Well, then, tell him they've taken me off it entirely. Sam will back me up, I already told him I didn't even see much of the evidence because the FBI is taking the case, and once I'd told them everything I knew, I was removed even as the liaison to the feds."

Bobby closed his eyes. "That will make him feel better – but don't think it's any aspersion on your skills. He's just . . . what he's been through, he can't face someone he knows coming up against that bastard."

"I can understand that," she replied.

"Now, I heard what you were saying when I picked up the phone. Let me give you our contact info in case something comes up again like that. Don't know that it will, but it's better to be safe than sorry, and all."

"Sounds good," she said. Bobby passed her his cell number, John's, Sam's and salvage yard number as well. She gave him her contact info and the number for her friend Rhetta. "You call Rhetta, and she'll know where to find me, guaranteed."

Bobby laughed a little. "Pinky swears?" he asked wryly.

"How'd you know?" she said with a chuckle.

"Something Dean said," Bobby replied. "He told us you two were old school best friends."

"He sure saw a lot in a couple of nights."

"He's that way," Bobby said. "Well, I'm sure they'll both be fine after a night's rest, but I'd better go back their daddy up a bit. He's a little overwhelmed right now."

"No kidding. I'll call sometime tomorrow to see how Dean is."

"You do that. Good night, Gracie."

She was silent for a moment, then she laughed. "Good night, George," she replied, and he heard a small beep as she disconnected.

He walked back to the RV to find Sam leaning over in the booth, an ice pack held to the back of his head. Castiel stood behind the front seats, staring down at Dean somberly, and John paused in mid-pace when Bobby opened the door. John's eyes bored into his. "What did she say?" he demanded.

"Apparently, she tried to reassure him by telling him she was working the case – also trying to gently get off the phone with him, I gather, as Sam requested."

"And Dean panicked," Sam said earnestly. "That's what I thought happened, Dad. That's what I said, isn't it?"

"Is she working this case?" John asked.

"No, she just thought he'd be more comfortable if he thought someone he knew was involved. She didn't realize it was exactly the opposite. She says she hasn't even seen much evidence, and that they kicked her out once they knew everything she knew."

"She was really worried about Dean, Dad. I'm sure she didn't freak him out on purpose."

John just nodded absently and turned towards Castiel. "Can you –"

The angel was looking upwards. "I must go. If someone comes and claims to be an angel, do not trust him. Once I am gone, Dean will awaken when it is natural for him to." He vanished as soon as he stopped speaking, and Bobby let out a curse.

A quiet knock on the RV door drew all their attention but didn't wake Dean. Bobby opened the door and let Ellen inside. "Everything okay in here?" she asked, and her eyes widened when she saw Sam's icepack. "What happened? I've got half a dozen hunters wanting to know what the hell's going on, and since I can't tell them the truth, I need an answer I can give them."

Bobby was at a loss, and John just glowered at the wall, clearly seeing something else in his mind. Sam answered her question when it became clear that John wasn't going to. "Tell them Dean had a nightmare I couldn't handle and I called Dad on his cell," Sam said. "It's clear he's having PTSD or something. They'll get it."

"Well, our conversation with Castiel is pretty much over," John remarked dryly, and Ellen glanced around the RV. "He had to go suddenly, he does that a lot. But we'll be here a couple of days, so we can hope he'll show up again before we go. Right now, I think it's time for bed."

"Anyone taking one of the ones I got inside?"

"We'll see," John said. "Bobby or I will come in shortly if we decide to take you up on it."

"Sure. Good night, everyone."

After Ellen left, Sam gave his dad the eye. "What conversation with Castiel?"

"The angel was giving us a history lesson," Bobby said dismissively, keeping his focus on Dean to distract Sam from pursuing questions he didn't think either he or John felt up to just now. "Maybe we should leave Dean out here tonight, unless he wakes up. I don't want to try to move him."

Sam shook his head regretfully. "He needs his bandages changed, and I need to look at the cuts to make sure he didn't rip anything." He put the ice pack down and pushed himself semi-upright, ducking so he didn't hit his head on the cupboards above the table. "Dad, would you go turn down the covers to make it easier to get Dean into bed when I'm done with him?"

"Sam, you can't –"

Sam gave his father a dour look. "I can and will, Dad. I'm not that fragile."

John had a sour expression his face, but for once he didn't argue. He went back into the rear bedroom of the motor home. Sam followed him as far as the bathroom where he grabbed his stash of medical supplies and came back.

"You need anything from me?"

Sam looked up after putting the little basket of gauze and stuff on the floor. "Maybe you could tape the window?" he suggested, glancing towards the one above the couch. "I could feel the breeze when I was sitting in the dinette, and it's just going to get worse."

"What?" Bobby exclaimed. "The window's broke?"

Sam grimaced. "Head. Window. Not sure which one won, though since I'm still alive and conscious, I guess you could say the head won." He shrugged. "Anyway, Dean won't want you watching while I do this, so I just thought –"

"Yeah, yeah," Bobby muttered, thinking dark thoughts about his deposit. "Where's the duct tape?"


	13. Chapter 13

_Author's note: I_ am _sorry for the long hiatus. I got a new job and life has been a bit busy what with changing jobs, changing work schedules, changing wardrobes, changing sleep schedules, and, of all things, changing eating schedules. Took a while to start being hungry at noon instead of midnight. LOL. I tell you, genuinely didn't intend this to be quite such a long wait._

 _I gather from some of the correspondence I've been getting that Grace et al are confusing people, so here's the skinny. On the_ _show_ Saving Grace _, Grace Hanadarko, lapsed Catholic and abuse survivor is a philandering, alcoholic cop headed for the bad place. Heaven decided that she had worth, and a chance of redemption, so they sent her a Last Chance Angel, Earl. That's the essence, and it's all from the first episode, so I'm not spoiling anything. There are minor spoilers for the show in this, but nothing huge. Enjoy.  
_

 **Chapter 13**

Grace woke up abruptly in the middle of the night, Gus nudging at her with his nose. Images of bloody violence lingered in her mind, imagined events in that office building augmented by her experience of what shitty things people could do to each other. Now that she was awake, Gus was settling again. She murmured a sleepy thanks at him and rubbed his ear as she rolled out of bed.

After that dream, she needed a beer. Shouldering on her bathrobe, she went into the kitchen. Grabbing a bottle out of the fridge, she popped the top off and turned around to find herself face to face with a strange man. Her reaction was immediate and automatic. She swung the bottle at the guy's head and scuttled sideways, throwing herself over the bar to get to the cabinet where she kept her gun. Utensils and beer bottles flew every which way, but she paid them no heed, jerking the cupboard open and grabbing her pistol. She turned quickly, knowing the guy had to be coming after her. He was so close behind her that he might as well have teleported, and she shot reflexively, the barrel aimed directly at the center of his chest. The smell of gun powder stung in her nostrils.

He stared at her, eyes narrowing, but showed no evidence of pain. "Who do you work for?" he demanded, his voice deep and angry.

"Who the hell are you?" She felt cornered and seriously contemplated pumping another bullet into him.

"Who do you work for?" he repeated.

"Oklahoma City PD," she retorted. "What of it? Who are you? Why are you –"

He blinked, and his eyes lost some of their cold fury. "You are not . . ." He paused, grimacing. "Idiot!" he muttered, and then he was gone, leaving the sound of beating wings behind him.

She dropped her gun to her side and tried to catch her breath. "What the hell . . ." she breathed, and finally pushed herself away from the wall. After grabbing another beer, she sat down in the living room and tried to figure out what had just happened. First, she'd been attacked by a man who looked like a reasonably attractive office drone, but he hadn't touched her, hadn't actually done anything to her. She'd shot him, and he barely seemed to notice. And those questions, that reaction . . . it was like he'd been expecting someone – something else.

"Grace!" The suddenness of the exclamation made her jump and she spilled yet more beer.

"Damn it, Earl!" she growled.

"Are you okay?" Earl asked urgently, looking around the living room, actually tracing the path of her recent visitor. "What did he do? What did he want?"

"Who was he?"

"Another angel," Earl said.

"He didn't seem much like you," Grace said.

"He wouldn't. He's not a last chance angel, he's a . . . he's a foot soldier, I think. Certainly this room reeks of retribution. Did he hurt you?"

"Retribution?" Grace exclaimed. "But I haven't even done anything wrong lately."

"What did he do?"

"Well, he scared the piss out of me, that's what he did."

"Grace!"

"He asked me who I work for," Grace said, glaring at him. "I told him. He looked confused, muttered that someone was an idiot, and left."

"He called you an idiot?" Earl asked, and that seemed to bother him.

"No, I don't think so," Grace said, shaking her head. "I think he called himself an idiot. What the hell was that, Earl? Who the hell? And why me?"

"I don't know, but . . . you're okay?"

"He didn't touch me, not even after I shot him."

Earl's eyes widened. "You shot one of God's soldiers," he said slowly. "And you're still alive?"

"He didn't even seem upset," Grace remarked. "Except the whole idiot thing, but that came after." She had never seen Earl looking this alarmed. "What's going on?"

"I don't know, Grace. I'll go see what I can find out." He vanished and Grace scowled.

"Go back to bed, Grace, I'll take care of things," she muttered, filling in what Earl should have said. "Everything will be okay." She dragged herself out of the chair. "I'll come back and let you know what's up later on." Sighing, she flipped off the lights and went into the bedroom where she found her intruder from earlier sitting on the edge of the bed, Gus's head in his lap. He was stroking Gus's ears with a peculiar intensity, and Gus looked delirious with joy. "Hello again," she said. She was startled that her reaction was so low key after everything that had happened earlier, but she felt a little numb.

The angel looked up, his blue eyes earnest and solemn. "I wish to apologize for alarming you. It was not my intent to alarm –" He broke off. "It was my intent to alarm you when I believed you were someone else. I would not have wished to alarm you." He shook his head. "I am not being clear."

"I get it. I'm a cop."

He relaxed slightly. "Good. I am also here to ask you some questions on a very important matter."

Grace sat down in the chair by the wall and lit herself a cigarette. "You going to introduce yourself?" she asked. "I mean, you're in my bedroom, petting my dog, it seems –"

"The dog, yes. That is what I wished to talk to you about."

Grace raised her eyebrows and leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. "You wanted to ask me about Gus?"

"Do you find it a comfort to have a non-human companion sharing your domicile?"

"Yeah," Grace said, blinking at him. "Yeah, I do."

"Does he prevent nightmares?"

"I don't know about prevent – but he wakes me out of 'em pretty often." She leaned across and rubbed his nose. "He's my good boy."

"Does his presence give you hope?" She didn't know what to say to that question. He seemed to pick up on her uncertainty. "Does he give you a feeling of connection in the world?"

"Sure," Grace said. "That's what pets do. They remind you that there are really awesome things in the world, not just asshole perps who rape and strangle and who ought to be put down."

He nodded gravely. "Thank you, Grace Hanadarko," he said, and then he was gone again. Gus's head thumped comically to the mattress and Grace leapt forward to comfort him. Angels sure tended to be abrupt, she thought. He'd seemed a lot nicer this time.

* * *

Sam woke up feeling sore and headachey. His gut hurt a little, which he hadn't mentioned to his dad or Bobby, not figuring that a punch in the gut was worthy of much notice. Dean had fortunately not done himself much damage in his abortive attempt to escape, and he was still asleep. He hadn't really woken up during the treatment last night, nor the moving from the front of the RV to the back, despite Bobby's worries.

The RV door opened, letting in a pair of loud voices. "– some way to keep him safe. We can't have –"

"Locking him up ain't any kind of an answer," Bobby protested, and Sam closed his eyes.

"I'm not talking about locking him up," John growled. "You always exaggerate things."

"It ain't exaggeration, John, it's –" Dean shifted uneasily, and that goaded Sam into action.

He slipped out of bed and grabbed a sweatshirt, pulling it on as he padded down the short hallway. "Be quiet!" he hissed. "Do you want to wake Dean?"

Both men had the grace to look embarrassed. "He's still sleeping?" John asked.

Sam glowered at his father. "For now, unless you two keep on with your bitch fest. What's this about, anyway?"

John and Bobby gave each other mistrustful looks, and then Bobby said, "Why don't we go outside to continue this discussion?"

"I don't want to leave Dean alone."

"You stay here," John said, but Sam shook his head.

"No, I need to be part of this conversation," he said.

"Leave the door open," Bobby suggested. "We can hear him from outside, and it's actually a pretty warm morning for this time of year."

Sam grimaced, but he pulled his boots on and followed his father and Bobby outside. "Now, what's this about locking Dean up?"

"Bobby is exaggerating," John said grimly.

Bobby's eyes narrowed. "You want to put a padlock on the RV," he retorted.

"What?" Sam exclaimed.

"I do not!" John ran his hands through his hair. "I just want to . . . I don't know . . . find some way to make it harder for him to get out in case of panic attack."

"The only thing I can come up with is a packlock on the door, John, and that's crazy talk."

"What if he tries to get out when the damned thing's moving?" John demanded. "Won't do much good to save him from a demon just to turn him into road jam." Sam shuddered at the image, and that drew his father's attention to him. "Sit down before you fall down," John said roughly.

"I'm fine, Dad," Sam growled.

"No, you're not." He walked up and peered into Sam's eyes, having to lean up to do it. "Your pupils are still uneven. Sit down, boy."

Resentful and irritated, Sam sat in the patio chair presented by Bobby. "You just don't like me towering over you," he grumped.

"Okay, John, I take your point," Bobby said, ignoring the sidebar. "But, leaving aside the effect it would have on my deposit, a padlock isn't the answer. What if the thing caught fire and the boys couldn't get out? Or Dean might just grab himself the emergency exit, which would be kind of impossible to put back in once it's hit the highway."

Sam shook his head. "Look, we're not going anywhere for a couple of days, right?"

John shook his head. "Not yet, I guess, but –"

"So, we can work this out later," Sam said. "I'm going to go make some breakfast." He stood up a hair too fast and swayed a little.

"You're going straight back to bed, Sammy," John said. "I'll bring you something to eat in a little while, but you need some rest."

Sam wanted to protest, but his father's expression convinced him it would be pointless. Besides, he felt a powerful need to go check on Dean. He mastered his balance and went back into the RV, aware of Bobby and Dad talking quietly behind him. He had a feeling they were talking about him now.

Closing the door behind him, he checked the thermostat and turned it up a notch. Grabbing a couple of bottles of water, he headed back into the back and stopped dead on the threshold. Dean lay sprawled on the bed, facedown, and he looked fine, but what brought Sam to a halt was the sight of a red dog with a thick, curly coat lying right up against Dean, head down on crossed paws. The minute it heard Sam, its head came up and it gazed up at him with gentle brown eyes. Its tail wagged tentatively a couple of times, then when Sam didn't do anything at all, it lowered its chin to its paws and stared up at him.

"Hey, there, buddy," Sam said softly. "Where'd you come from?" The dog's head came up again, and Sam swore it wanted to answer him but didn't have the words. He backed out of the room and put the water bottles on the counter as he passed. Dad and Bobby were still outside, so he opened the door and went out.

John turned as he hit ground, and his eyes darkened. "I thought I told you to go to bed."

"There's something in the trailer," Sam replied.

Both John and Bobby looked instantly alarmed, but Sam shook his head. "No, don't freak out, it's just a . . . stray dog." The possibility of germs and disease occurred to him suddenly, and he turned and hurried back to the bed, bumping against the walls and surfaces as he ran through. "Shoo!" he said, waving his hands at the dog. "Shoo! Git!"

"Well, son of a bitch," Bobby muttered behind him, and he glanced back to see that his father and Bobby were shoulder to shoulder, filling the doorway.

"Shoo!" Sam said again, but the dog was just looking up at him, a curious look in its eyes, seeming puzzled by his behavior. This wasn't working. He started forward, but a hand clutched in his sweatshirt pulled him back.

"No, Sam, it might bite you. It might bite Dean."

The expression the dog turned on John looked almost offended, but then Dean began to shift uneasily in his sleep, making the distressed sounds Sam associated with his nightmares, the barest beginnings of the ones that turned into screaming if they weren't stopped. His father didn't release him, and he was about ready to slide out of the sweatshirt when the dog took action. It looked towards Dean's head, nuzzled his cheek briefly, then settled closer. Dean quieted, and he actually pressed his head against the dog's nose.

"That's not normal," Bobby muttered.

"It's a dog," Sam countered. He slipped out of the sweatshirt, leaving it in his father's hand. "Hey there, buddy," he murmured, sitting down on the edge of the bed. The dog looked at him curiously, and he put out a cautious hand. It gave Sam's fingers a lick, and Sam glanced at his father. "I don't think it's going to bite, Dad, but it might be dirty, and Dean can't afford dirt right now." He rubbed an ear, and then started looking the dog over. To his surprise, it cooperated.

He totted up the issues he found. Matted fur, ribs a little too obvious, clearly not someone's pet, but also clearly socialized. "It's a girl," he said, rubbing her belly. "I'm not sure of the breed."

"Well, let's get it off the bed," John said.

"Come on, girl," Sam said, pulling at her gently. "You need a bath."

"We're not bathing it, Sam, we're putting it outside."

"She's a stray dog, Dad," Sam protested. "She's not being cared for, and Dean clearly finds her comforting. Maybe we should see what he thinks before we evict her."

John shook his head. "We don't need a dog."

Sam was looking down at Dean. His brother seemed . . . relaxed. He didn't always look relaxed these days, even when he was asleep. He bit his lip, then raised his eyes to his father's. "Actually, research shows that people who are in poor health get better faster if they have pets," Sam said. "And the beneficial effect of pets on stress is well documented."

"Sam!" his father growled.

"It's true, John," Bobby said. "And if Dean's going to be staying at my place awhile, I have no objection."

"We should check with Dean," Sam reiterated. "In the meantime, though, you need a bath, girl." He pulled her away from Dean. She went with him meekly enough. "I think I'll take her inside. I don't want to bathe her in the same shower Dean has to use."


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

John hoped that the minute they got outside, the dog would bolt from Sam and that would be the last they saw of it, but far from bolting, the creature actually seemed to enjoy the bath. Ellen, too, hopped on the bandwagon of 'a dog will be good for Dean.' He had to admit, she was a pretty thing, not a small dog, but not particularly big, either.

"I think she's still a puppy," Ellen said. "Not a baby, but not grown up yet, either."

At that point, Sam was scrubbing at the dog with a dry towel. "She's well behaved," he said. "Clearly socialized."

They'd left Bobby with Dean, and John was chafing to get back to him, but he didn't trust a dog showing up out of nowhere like this.

"Doesn't it seem kind of coincidental?" he asked.

"Dad, I told you, go put some holy water in a bowl and we'll test her," Sam said with a sort of patience that made John's hackles rise. "We've already given her salt." They had. She'd lapped it up eagerly, which Sam said indicated dehydration.

"You know, she's looking awfully hungry," Ellen said. "Gimme a minute." She disappeared, and John scowled.

"What's wrong, Dad? Why can't you just assume she's a stray that wandered in and found a warm place to sleep?"

"Because we are who we are, Sammy, and because our life is never that simple."

"She's a dog, Dad," Sam said irritably. "Someone probably dumped her." He rubbed both sides of her face with the towel, looking positively gushy. The dog looked blissful. "People can be so mean," Sam said, and John rolled his eyes. "And yes, Dad, I know I'm a girl. I've had you and Dean telling me ever since I insisted on keeping my face clean when I ate ice cream at four."

"I have never called you a girl," John said with icy dignity. "That was Dean, and I always tried to stop him when he started it."

Sam shrugged. "Whatever. I know you think I'm soft."

John closed his eyes. "Sam, do we have to get into this right now?"

Sam shook his head and fell silent until Ellen showed up with two bowls. One of them had water in it and was plain ceramic, the other glinted dully silver beneath a liberal helping of ground meat. "Good idea," Sam said. "That is silver, isn't it?"

"My grandma would be horrified by this use of part of her tea service, but I figure it's a good cause."

* * *

Dean woke up and stared at the ceiling of the motor home. He felt sore and very very sleepy, but he was done with being in bed. He was half-surprised not to find Sam sitting up next to him, some book open on his lap, reading, but it was kind of nice to wake up alone. He so rarely spent any time alone lately.

He rolled over onto his back and stretched his arms out wide, then crossed them over his chest. That was when he noticed a longish red hair stuck to the white sleeve of his t-shirt. He plucked it off and stared at it, then sat up and examined the covers. There were quite a few red hairs scattered about.

"Oh, you're awake," Bobby announced, and Dean looked up, realizing suddenly that he didn't recall going to bed.

"Tell me I did not score with some redhead and forget all about it," he demanded, and Bobby's eyes widened. He didn't answer immediately, and Dean held out a small handful of hair. "Was there or was there not a redhead in my bed last night?"

"Not last night, no," Bobby said. "She was here for a while this morning."

Dean blinked at him. "Was she cute?"

Bobby nodded amiably. "Adorable," he said, and Dean couldn't decide if he was being sarcastic or not.

"Was I at least good?" he asked, feeling lost.

Shrugging, Bobby said, "She seemed to like you."

"Where'd she go?"

"Oh, your father chased her out," Bobby said, and Dean's brows drew together in dismay. "Sam took her inside to get her a bath."

Dean just stared at him. He felt distinctly like he was missing something important. "A bath?" he repeated. "Sammy took her for a bath?"

Bobby nodded, and in his grin Dean sensed a mischievous amusement that made him try to think this through with a brain still sluggish from sleep. Girl. Red hair. Slightly curly, he observed, looking at it in his hand. Adorable, said in an odd, unreadable tone of voice – an amused tone, Dean decided after a moment of thought. Dad chased her out, but Sam . . . all the math suddenly added up to an answer, and Dean started pulling on his clothes.

"What are you doing?" Bobby asked, sounding slightly suspicious.

"I'd like to meet her before Dad chases her away altogether," Dean said. "If she'll forgive me for forgetting her."

Bobby snorted. "She seemed a very forgiving sort," he remarked. "And I don't think Sam will let your dad get rid of her before you've had a chance to see her."

"I don't suppose you guys picked up any thermal bottoms?" Dean asked as he contemplated his jeans and just how easily cold penetrated denim.

"Actually, I think we did," Bobby said, and he dug in one of the cupboards. "Here."

Feeling like a dumbass, Dean pulled them on. He'd never much worried about cold before unless it dropped below zero, but he got cold really easily right now. He wasn't sure if it was the fact that he always felt slightly weak and shaky, or if it was the fact that he weighed about three pounds. Either way, he didn't want to spend the day shivering, so he pulled his jeans on over the damned thermals.

Once he was bundled up to a fare-thee-well, he and Bobby headed across to the bar. Seen in the light of day, it was a ramshackle building, and typical of the prairie, it was basically no color at all. Sort of a grayish brownish shade that was created by wind and weather rather than the paint mixers at the local hardware store.

He pushed the door open into the bar and saw that the place was empty except for Jo, who was wiping glasses and putting them in their racks. She jerked her head towards a swinging door behind her, and Dean nodded his thanks and made his way towards it, Bobby close behind him. It opened onto a kitchen that made up in cleanliness what it lacked in the latest of modern conveniences. The walk-in fridge looked like it dated from the fifties, and Dean was reasonably certain that the cookstove was of a similar if not earlier vintage. There was some noise coming from a room a bit further on, and Dean made his way around the kitchen tables and appliances into what was clearly a mudroom. A door to the left led off into what he assumed was dry storage, and there was a deep metal sink beside a door with a window to the outside in the upper half. It was the kind of door that tended to be an invitation to thieves and monsters, but he didn't remark on it. His father was closest to him, with Ellen and Sam standing together in front of the sink, blocking most of it and all of its contents from view.

Dad became aware of his presence first. He turned, and his eyes widened on seeing Dean. "Dean, what are you doing in here?" John demanded. "You didn't need to come inside, we were going to bring your breakfast out to you."

Dean shrugged. "I kind of wanted a change of scene," he said.

"Son, you're still recovering," John started, but before he could develop on this theme, one Dean didn't really want to hear about right now, Ellen stepped to the side, revealing the beauty that stood in the sink. She was maybe two and a half feet high at the shoulder, with curly, reddish gold hair. Warm brown eyes turned towards Dean, and her tail began to wag furiously. Directly in front of him, his father started to speak. "I'm just –"

Dean ignored him and started forward. "So this is my new girlfriend," he said with a grin. Sam had looked up apprehensively, but at Dean's words, he grinned broadly. Dean walked forward, past his father. "Hello, sweetheart. Bobby wasn't wrong, you are adorable."

"Dean, wait," John said, catching his arm and holding him back. "We don't know anything about this dog."

"She's a dog, Dad," Sam said in what was clearly an oft-repeated refrain.

Dean wondered how long they'd been arguing. It wasn't the angry, vicious kind of fighting, so he didn't much care, though, and, it appeared, neither did his new girl. When it became clear that he wasn't coming any closer, she hopped out of the sink, trotted over to him and jumped up, putting her front paws on his thighs. He winced a little when a paw came into contact with the scars on his left thigh, but she shifted so that she wasn't putting pressure on them and he smiled at her, reaching down to fondle one soft ear. She looked plush, and her hair was soft to the touch. Pulling his arm out of his father's grip, he squatted down and looked into her melting eyes. "You are gorgeous, you know that, don't you?"

"Are you sure you don't want to offer her a modeling contract, Dean?" his father asked sardonically, and Dean looked up at him in surprise. John's eyes widened. Dean didn't know what he saw, but he seemed taken aback. After a moment, he said, "Dean, we don't know where she came from. She just turned up in the RV out of nowhere."

"We've tested her for everything, Dad," Sam said, and Dean looked up in alarm. One of the tests he could think of was cutting the suspect with a silver knife. Sam saw his expression and immediately added, "She ate out of a silver bowl, Dean. We didn't hurt her. Just fed her salt and holy water, and she passed with flying colors."

"We don't need a dog," Dad said firmly.

Dean felt the old pull of obedience tugging at him. Dad wasn't wrong, they didn't _need_ a dog. He dropped his eyes to the dog's again, though, and felt something else pulling at him. He cleared his throat. "You're right, Dad, we don't need a dog." The dog's eyes widened with something that looked like alarm. Dean scratched her neck reassuringly, and she relaxed. "But her name is Lucy, and I'm keeping her." He could swear that Lucy grinned at him, and he grinned back.

"Dean, a dog is a big responsibility, assuming she even is a normal dog, and –" Dean looked up at him, because he could still feel that kneejerk impulse towards obedience, and he wanted his father to stop pushing at him on this subject. Lucy looked up, too, and he watched his father look from his face to the dog's to Sam's and then back to his. Closing his eyes, John shook his head. "Fine. Fine. Sam, find us a vet to check her out."

He walked away, muttering, and Dean looked back down at Lucy. "You hear that, girl? Awesome, huh?"


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

Sam began to understand some of his dad's reservations as he watched Dean with his new dog. It didn't shake his confidence that she was just a dog and that keeping her was the right move, but he'd never seen his brother form such an immediate connection with anyone, human or animal. It was like they clicked, like they were meant for each other. It almost made him jealous, but he pushed that feeling aside as unworthy and idiotic besides.

He picked up the bowls from the side of the sink and put them down on the floor. "Dean, she hasn't finished eating, and she's too thin."

The ruckus that kicked up almost made him laugh. Dean immediately started fussing and sat down on the floor with her, encouraging her to eat, though once they were sitting side by side, she didn't seem to need much encouragement.

"A boy and his dog," Bobby muttered quietly next to Sam, and Sam chuckled a little at the wry tone in Bobby's voice. Ellen had gone into the kitchen proper, and Sam could hear pots and pans clanking around as she made breakfast.

"I had a dog, once," he said, and Bobby gave him a startled look. "When I ran away to Flagstaff. His name was Bones, and I think he was a golden retriever." He shrugged. "I gave him to the kids in the next unit when Dad and Dean came to take me back."

"Odd, you don't really strike me as a dog person," Bobby said.

"I don't know," Sam replied. "I never even thought about getting a pet in Palo Alto." He felt his stomach contract and he shoved thoughts of college away. "But Dean sure looks happy." He spoke a little louder than he'd meant to. Dean glanced up at him, and Sam cleared his throat. "And a little self-conscious. I'm going to go help Ellen with breakfast." He left Dean alone with Bobby and Lucy. They didn't dare leave him totally alone with the dog. Dad would have a tizzy, but Dean might feel less self-conscious with only Bobby there, and Sam needed something to think about besides Jessica.

When he offered to help, Ellen gave him a strange look, then set him to grilling up hash browns. Dad came back in out of the front bar area with a beer and raised his eyebrows. "Where's Dean?"

"In the back with Lucy and Bobby," Sam said. "I figured Bobby could keep an eye out to see if the dog turned into a ravening monster."

"Very funny, Sam," Dad said. "I just think it's a hell of a coincidence. I mean, Ellen, how many stray animals do you get out here?"

"Actually, a lot of people dump critters out this way," Ellen said. "You might be surprised at the stuff we get. Hunters sometimes adopt the dogs, but not many and the rest of them and the cats just stick around till something gets them."

"See, Dad, we're probably saving her life."

"Okay, Sam, okay, I already said fine." John glowered at him. "But this means you get to go out and pick up dog food and anything else we'll need."

Sam blinked at him. "What, you're going to let me go out alone?" For a moment, Sam thought his father was going to try and split himself in half. "Don't worry, Dad. I'll take Bobby. Give your paranoia a rest."

"It's not paranoia if there are actually people out to get you, Sam," John retorted. "Like the demon is out to get you and your brother. And you just remember, if he gets you, he's got Dean." Sam gulped, his stomach going cold. He turned and started scooping the hash browns off the grill before they burned. "Just you think about that before you go doing something stupid and reckless."

Sam dumped the last of the hash browns into the bowl and turned on his father. "When have I ever done anything stupid and reckless?" he demanded.

"Oh, never! Just . . . say, when you're breathing?" John growled, and Sam's jaw dropped. "You're the one who tromped off happily to school to live by himself. You didn't have any protections on that apartment. Not so much as a salt line. Anything could have got in –" Sam didn't know if his father caught himself, or if it was his expression that made him stop, but he broke off and Sam looked away.

After several awkward seconds, Ellen took up the slack in the conversation. "Sam, why don't you take the hash browns and the toast up to the dining room?" She nodded towards the stairs, and Sam took the offered escape gladly. He found an apartment up there that was comfortably furnished and the dining table was already set for six. He put the covered basket of toast and the bowl of hash browns down on ready trivets and turned to find Jo coming up behind him.

"Hey," he said awkwardly.

She had a pitcher of orange juice and another of milk. After putting them on the table, she brushed her hands across the seams of her jeans before putting them on her hips. "Everyone else coming up soon?"

"I think so," Sam said. "It might take a minute to get Dean up off the floor, though."

"What's Dean doing on the floor?" Jo asked.

"The dog," Sam replied. "He named her Lucy."

* * *

Ellen watched the four of them go up the stairs, faintly amused even with her own concern for Dean. Bobby went ahead of the boy, looking back frequently, John went behind, ready to catch Dean if he fell, and Lucy walked sedately beside him, just as if she'd been taught to heel by the dog whisperer.

She went into the pantry to grab fresh bottles of ketchup and Tabasco, wondering what the hell had come over Sam and John. Both of them had fallen silent in the middle of what was shaping up to be a huge argument. John had looked embarrassed and Sam had looked devastated. Maybe she'd have to catch Bobby later and find out if he knew.

The Tabasco was on the top shelf, and she was stretching up to get it when a hand reached up above her and took it down easily. She turned with a start to find Castiel behind her, holding the bottle out towards her. "The young woman Sam has lived with for the last year was possessed for the whole of their relationship," he said.

Taking the Tabasco, she blinked at him uncertainly. "Dear God."

"This was only uncovered when John went to fetch him to help find Dean."

"That poor boy," Ellen murmured, glancing up towards where the dining room was. "Did she survive?"

"She did," Castiel replied. "But she only dimly recalls him from a shared class more than a year and a half ago. The rest of what she remembers is overlain by the demon."

"Damn," Ellen muttered. Then she looked up at the angel. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I thought you would want to know," he said, looking puzzled. "Do you not?"

"No, of course I do, I just didn't expect an angel to fill me in." He nodded, seeming to accept this. "Thank you."

"Secrets are imprudent and dangerous, and there are too many of them already," he observed. "Things should be brought to light, settled and laid to rest."

Ellen raised her eyebrows. "What exactly are you referring to?"

"You must make your peace with John Winchester."

Grimacing, Ellen shook her head. "I'm not the one who's holding it up," she said.

"You must help him. He is a Winchester. That means he is stubborn, sometimes foolish and always guilt-ridden."

"I see." She cleared her throat. "Can I ask you a question?"

"You just did," he said, a twinkle of humor in his eye.

She plunged gamely on. "That dog of Dean's, is she just a dog, or is John right to be worried?"

"She is a dog. Can you tell me why he has named her Lucy?" He gazed at her thoughtfully. "You think you know."

Ellen smiled. "I think he named her after Lucille Ball."

"The woman who ate too many chocolates on an assembly line?" he asked slowly.

"Yeah," Ellen said, startled. "You watch TV?"

"With Dean," he replied. "But I believe this conversation requires coffee, and they are waiting for you." He nodded and was gone again, the sound of wings fading into the distance. Ellen took a deep breath and went upstairs to find everyone gathered around the table. Jo was sitting next to Dean, a fact which seemed to please them both, and Sam was watching them with amusement. The dog could not be seen above the table, but Ellen could see a tail sticking out from under Dean's chair, wagging hopefully.

"Where have you been?" Bobby asked.

She held up the Tabasco and the ketchup, then put them on the table. Clearing her throat as she sat, she spoke in a conversational tone. "Castiel says that Lucy is just a dog."

"I told you –" Sam started, but then he broke off as all five of them looked at her in surprise.

"Did you say Castiel?" John asked after a moment of silence.

"He dropped by for a minute," Ellen said. "I asked him about Lucy."

"And he –"

"Castiel was here?" Dean burst out, and Ellen turned towards him, startled by both his tone and his volume. His eyes were wide and alarmed, and his body radiated tension. John broke off speaking, and Sam looked paralyzed, his eyes filled with anxiety. "Why didn't he come to see me?" Dean asked, gazing intently at Ellen. "Why would my angel come to see you?" Ellen opened her mouth to respond, not sure what to say but urgently wanting to comfort the boy. Before she could speak, Dean turned to his father, seeming almost to tremble with agitation. "Did you tell her about Castiel? When? Why?" He paused for breath, his hands shaking. Ellen didn't know what to do or say, she didn't know the boy well enough. Jo had lapsed into a worried silence, and Bobby seemed to be in the same boat she was.

"Dean, it's okay," Sam said quietly, leaning towards his brother. "It's –"

Not even seeming to hear Sam, Dean turned towards her again. "And why would you ask him about Lucy?" He demanded. "Of course she's a dog!" His shoulders heaved as his breathing came faster. His emotions seemed out of control, and Ellen glanced at John. Sam put a hand on Dean's arm, but Dean shook it off. "What else would she be? Dad's already had her tested with everything known to hunters, right? Why would you ask?"

He actually paused long enough for her to answer, and Ellen said, "I just wanted to reassure your father, Dean. I thought it would –"

Dean turned on his father, leaning forward and slamming a fist down on the table. "What do you have against Lucy, Dad? Can't you see anything in the world but threats?"

"Calm down, Dean," John said, looking a bit wild-eyed himself. "No one has anything against –"

"Bobby said you were going to run her off." John grimaced and gave Bobby an irritated look. "She's staying," Dean declared, and his father nodded. Sam put his hand on Dean's shoulder again, but Dean shrugged him off, glancing towards Ellen. Then he looked down at his shaking hands, curling them into fists. "I don't understand. Even if they've met, why would Cas come to see Ellen and not stop to see me?" He looked up at his father again. "I thought . . . I don't . . . I don't understand."

"Dean, calm down," Sam said anxiously. "We can –"

Dean shook his head violently. "It doesn't make sense. Why? I . . . I can't –"

Suddenly, the dog hopped up, putting her front legs on Dean's lap. She was a pretty thing, and her warm golden eyes were focused on Dean's face. He looked down, clearly startled. Lucy nuzzled his chin, and his hands relaxed and came to rest on her head and neck. He calmed visibly as he scratched her, the tension draining from his muscles, the tremors ceasing. Ellen saw Sam give his father a significant look, and she glanced at John herself. He didn't seem to notice Sam's expression. His eyes were on Dean and the dog, and Ellen could see that there would be no further objections to Lucy coming from that quarter.

No one said anything for a long moment, then Bobby coughed. In a clear attempt to return things to normal, he said, "Hey, Sam, would you pass me them hash browns?"

Sam's attention had returned to his brother, so Bobby's effort fell flat. Dean looked up, his face contorted in an expression of embarrassment. "I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me." He gave Ellen a sheepish look. "I didn't mean to –"

"Dean, don't worry about it," John said instantly. "Ellen knows what kind of strain you're under." Sam started in on the same kind of embarrassment-enhancing reassurances at the same moment. Ellen gave John a solid nudge to the shin, but a second before her foot connected, John broke off with a grunt. Ellen guessed that Bobby'd had the same idea she'd had from the glare John shot towards him.

Dean's eyebrows drew together at his father's sound of pain. "Dad, you okay?" Sam broke off when Dean spoke.

"I'm fine, Dean," John said with another glare at Bobby. "But –"

Abruptly, Jo reached out and grabbed the plate of toast. After snagging a piece, she held the plate out to Dean. "Well, next time you want to pitch a fit, could you wait till after I've had my breakfast?" she asked, her tone a study in amused sarcasm.

Ellen sensed John ready to light into her over the insensitivity of the question, but Bobby put a hand on his arm, forestalling him. Dean, seeming oblivious to the activity at the other end of the table, took the plate of toast and said, "Sure, I'll keep that in mind." He gave her a half-hearted grin. "At least I'll try to wait till you've had your first cup of coffee." She laughed and his grin broadened. "Sorry about that." He took a piece of toast and put it on his plate, then took another piece and fed it to Lucy, who took it and dropped back down to the floor. Bending to stroke the dog's back, Dean said, "I'm not usually that much of a drama queen."

Jo shrugged. "No biggie, really," she said. "At least you don't think pinching my ass is a greeting like most other hunters seem to."

Dean blinked at her. "Oh, do you get much of that?" he asked in a surprised voice.

"Yeah, I do," Jo said, bristling at his apparent surprise. "Why do you ask?"

"I don't know, maybe I just still think of you as a little kid," Dean replied with an amused look. "Besides, I'd figure your mom would take their hand off for them." He grinned at Ellen. "Do you get a lot of that?"

"More than I'd like," Ellen said with a shrug.

"Now that I can totally see. If I had to pick an ass to pinch, it would definitely be –"

"Dean!" John thundered, and his son broke off, his eyes wide.

"I'm sorry, Ellen!" Dean exclaimed, looking appalled with himself. "I didn't mean –"

"The only way you could offend me, youngling, is if you said you didn't mean it," Ellen said with a chuckle.

"No, I meant it, I just didn't mean to . . ." He trailed off, seeming to realize what she'd said. "Well, so long as you're not upset."

"Don't worry," Ellen said. "Eat up. You're too thin."

"Now you sound like Sammy." Dean blinked and glanced slyly at his brother. "Further proof that my brother's really a girl. He's a mom."

Sam rolled his eyes and proved the point again by pressing eggs, bacon and hash browns on his brother. Dean gave her a speaking look, but he didn't say anything. For a while, everyone focused on the food, and the only conversation consisted of requests for things to be passed. At least once in the meal, every single one of them fed the dog. Dean fed her almost more than he fed himself.

"So . . . um . . ." Dean cleared his throat and everyone looked up. "Not that I'm not happy to be here and not that your cooking alone wouldn't inspire me to stay for like ten years." He nodded at Ellen, then turned towards his father. "But why are we here?"

Ellen turned towards John to see what his answer would be. "Actually, Ellen, I wanted to ask you, don't you have some kind of a computer whiz working with you?"

"Sure, Ash, but he's not here right now."

"A computer guy?" Dean snorted, glancing at his brother. "What do you need a computer guy for, Dad?"

"Don't worry about it, Dean," John said.

"No, seriously, Dad," Dean asked. "What do you need with a computer guy?" Sam gazed at his father expectantly, but he didn't say anything. Dean nudged his brother with a grin. "Do you even know which end of a computer to hold?"

"Dean, please, I said not to worry about it."

Dean shook his head, his brows knit. "Dad, why don't you –"

"That's enough, Dean," John snapped, and Dean's face went blank.

"Yes, sir," he said instantly, and turned his attention to his food.

Ellen saw that both Jo and Sam looked incensed, but Sam just stuck his fork with a little more vigor into his hash browns while Jo opened her mouth to bitch at John. Ellen aimed a kick at her under the table, but Jo must have guessed what she was up to and moved, because her foot traveled farther than she expected and when she connected, she heard a yelp from next to Dean's chair, and a skitter of paws as Lucy moved hastily away.

"Who kicked my dog?" Dean exclaimed in outraged tones. He bent double, diving under the table.

Ellen gave her daughter a death glare, which Jo gave her right back. "Sorry, Dean," Ellen said. She and Jo were going to have to have a talk later about what was and wasn't their business. "It was an accident."

"It's okay, Lucy," Dean murmured, emerging with Lucy in his arms, cuddling her close.

Ellen turned back to John. "Ash is off on a job, actually."

"A hunt?" John asked.

"No, nothing like that," Ellen said. Jo snorted, and Ellen gave her a warning look. "He gets periodic jobs to solve impossible computer problems. He can't function in a normal corporate environment, but no one's better than he is at dealing with crises."

"Well, can you give me his number?"

"Not much point," Ellen said, shaking her head regretfully. "When he goes on these things, he's really focused. He won't answer a number he doesn't know, but he'll be back in a few days." She glanced at the calendar on the wall behind Sam. It was the 17th of December. "It's getting on for Christmas, so why don't you all just stay? I mean, it's only a little more than a week." John's refusal was clear in his expression, but she wasn't taking no for an answer that easily. "I've got a huge ham and Jo and I would love to have you. Besides, I'm sure you and Sam and Bobby could use some rest, not to mention Dean." She picked up a piece of bacon and held it out towards Lucy, raising an eyebrow at Dean. Reluctantly, Dean let his dog out of his arms, and Ellen leaned down under the table. The dog padded over and took the tidbit daintily. Ellen took the chance to give her a quick rubdown. "Lucy's awful thin, too. I think it would be wise to give her some time to fatten up before taking her in the RV." Lucy licked her fingers and returned to Dean's side.

"That's true!" Dean exclaimed, looking startled. "Dogs can get carsick. We have to stay. At least until she's gained some weight." John's expression darkened. Ellen hadn't really expected this to be as big a deal as it seemed to be.

Sam glanced back and forth between his father and brother and cleared his throat. "I think it's a great idea," he said. "Bobby?"

Ellen saw Dean turn pleading eyes on his father and Bobby. After a moment, John relented. "Fine, we'll stay, as long as Bobby can afford to keep the RV that long."

"Not a problem," Bobby said. "I'll have to give Tiffany a call to let her know I'll be a while longer."

* * *

 _Author's Note: I have used several sources of information regarding the Winchester family history as well as inventing bits out of whole cloth. First, there's the show, of course. Second, there is a published version of John Winchester's diary, one that's more family history than monster hunting, and some of the information regarding John's relationship with the Harvelle family is pulled from that source. Also, alert readers will note references to two of my other published Supernatural stories in this chapter._


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

Grace called Rhetta when she got up the next morning. Before she could even speak, Rhetta started in. "You are not even cancelling our lunch today."

Grimacing, Grace said, "Actually, I am."

"No, you're not," Rhetta countered. "Weren't you listening?"

"Yes," Grace said with a deep sigh. "But, see, I'm going to Nebraska today."

"Nebraska? Why are you going to Nebraska?"

"Dean's in a little town called Elgin, and I need to return his keys."

"How do you know that?"

"I talked to him last night, and he told me."

"Seriously?" Rhetta exclaimed. "How is he?"

"Not great," Grace replied grimly. "He had a panic attack in the middle of the call. Look, I'll tell you all about it later, but I just needed to cancel lunch."

"You're not cancelling lunch, Grace," Rhetta said, and Grace rolled her eyes. "You're just changing the location."

"Well, I suppose I'm going to have lunch and you're going to have lunch, but since we'll be in different states, we can't rightly be said to be having lunch together."

"No, I'll be with you."

"You want to come to Nebraska?"

"Duuuuh," Rhetta replied.

"Are you sure? Earl says it's dangerous."

"You're going."

"I know him, Rhetta, and I talked to him last night."

"He had Denson say 'hi' to me," Rhetta retorted.

Grace nodded thoughtfully. "Okay then. Connie's leaving in ten minutes."

"I'll be there.

It took Rhetta seven minutes, not ten, but by the time she'd arrived, Grace stood waiting in the driveway. Rhetta parked the van, grabbed her bag from the front seat and hurried across the yard. She was halfway to Connie before she registered Grace's expression. She felt her own mood slump. "What is it, Grace?" she asked, not sure what to expect.

"A body was found over at the high school," Grace said grimly, and Rhetta caught her breath. "Hop in, your team's already on its way."

Tossing her overnight bag in the backseat of the Porsche, Rhetta got in. "Did they know we were coming?" she asked after a couple of minutes, meaning Dean and his family.

"Nope," Grace said. "We'll go when this case is over. I already told Kate that we were going to need a personal day once this case wraps up."

Rhetta nodded. "Good," she said. "Damn it." She leaned back in her seat and tried to prepare herself for the crime scene.

* * *

The excitement of the new dog seemed to have worn Dean out. Before noon, he was back in the RV for a nap. After consulting Ellen and the online yellow pages, Sam had made an appointment to take Lucy in to see the vet on Monday. Dad wasn't altogether thrilled with the delay, but Sam had needed to beg to get an appointment that soon. Their Saturday roster was full, they weren't open Sunday, and Sam got the feeling they were being shoehorned into the Monday schedule. He didn't feel like pushing any harder since it was just pandering to his father's paranoia.

Leaving Dean and the dog asleep in the RV with his father sitting in the dinette to keep watch, Sam collared Bobby and the keys to Dad's truck. "Where are we going, kid?" Bobby asked as they headed towards the door to the parking lot.

Sam opened his mouth to respond and realized suddenly that he didn't have the foggiest clue. He'd never bought stuff for a dog before. Bones had eaten whatever he'd eaten all those years ago. "Wal-Mart?"

"Let's ask Ellen and see what she says."

Sam followed Bobby back into the kitchen feeling a little sheepish. By his plan they would have wound up on the road with no destination in mind. "Ellen?" Bobby asked, and she popped her head up out of the fridge. "Where should we go to get stuff for the dog?"

"Mosel's Feed and Seed would be your best bet, I'd reckon," Ellen said, standing up straight. "He'll have everything you need."

Sam blinked. He hadn't considered needing to go to a feed store. He didn't know if he'd ever even been to a feed store. "Directions?" he asked weakly.

Ellen grinned and rattled them off. "Drive safe, boys," she said with a wink at Bobby.

Sam led the way back out to the truck and got in on the driver's side. Once they were underway, Bobby cleared his throat. "So, how are you doing, Sam?" he asked.

Sam blinked at the road. "Great," he said. "We found Dean, he's alive and he's going to be okay." He hoped that last sounded more confident than he felt.

"It's been a hell of a two months, though, and I haven't really had a second alone with you to ask how you're holding up on other fronts." The older man grimaced. "You want to talk about . . . anything?" His discomfort with the question was palpable

"No, Bobby, no," Sam said, and Bobby's tension relaxed. Resentment stirred in Sam's mind, knowing that Bobby had asked because he felt obligated, not because he really wanted to know how Sam felt. The worst part was that Sam did want to talk, but he didn't have anyone he could talk to. Bobby and Dad both would find a frank conversation about emotions uncomfortable to the point of debilitating. Dean was the same way, even if he was up to dealing with hearing about Jessica or Sam's lost dreams. None of them would even understand most of it.

Sam pulled up to park in the gravel lot outside the feed store. It was a solitary building with a small front lot and a large back one with a variety of products available. When Sam and Bobby went inside, a voice from further in the store said, "G'mornin'."

"Good morning," Sam said, glancing automatically at his watch to see if it was, in fact, still morning. It lacked two minutes of noon. He walked deeper in. "Do you have a pet department?"

"Depends on what you mean by pet," the man said. Sam had reached the front of the store to find an older man standing behind a wooden counter. "Cat? Dog? Hamster? Snake?"

"Dog," Sam said. "Just found her this morning, so we haven't got anything."

"Over on aisle ten," the man said. "Reggie." He stuck out a hand.

"Sam." They shook, he left Reggie and Bobby introducing themselves and went to the designated aisle where he found a cornucopia of doggie goodies. Sam started pulling things off shelves, but in very short order he realized that he needed a cart.

* * *

John heard the truck pull up outside. Dean hadn't stirred the whole time Sam had been gone. He got up and peeked into the bedroom to make sure that the engine noise hadn't woken Dean up, but his son still slept, his dog cuddled up close. When John entered the room, she looked up, sniffed the air, then settled her chin back on Dean's shoulder.

John withdrew and went outside as the engine cut off. The bed of the truck seemed alarmingly full of stuff. John had given Sam cash, but he didn't think he'd given him that much cash, and it was unwise to screw people you might have to deal with again, quite aside from what it would do to Ellen's reputation.

Sam hopped out of the truck and immediately pushed past him into the RV. John didn't even manage to greet him before he was out of sight. And that was the kid who hadn't had contact with his brother in two years. Sam did everything in extremes.

John walked up to the bed of the truck and looked in. "I know I didn't give Sam enough cash to cover this," he said, gazing in astonishment at the sheer amount of stuff. "What the hell is all this?"

"I know," Bobby said wryly. "He says we'll need to take a trip to Wal-Mart or Petco to get the rest of what we need."

"He thinks we need more stuff?" John reached in and pulled out a bag. "Tell me this isn't dog conditioner."

"She's got a thick, curly coat," Sam said from behind him. "It will tangle easily. Conditioner will help manage that."

"Conditioner?" John repeated.

"Dad, it's perfectly normal," Sam said, and he reached into the truck bed for an enormous bag of dog food.

"Science Diet?" John read off the label.

"It's the best non-prescription dog food on the market," Sam said. "I did some research on my phone."

"Prescription dog food?" John said. "There's prescription dog food?"

"Sure," Sam replied. "Dogs get health problems just like people do, Dad, and a diabetic dog needs different food than one who's healthy."

John shook his head. "Are there food bowls in all this mess?"

"Of course," Sam said. He reached into the truck bed again and pulled out two large, circular containers with screw-on lids. Spinning the lid off one of them, he ripped open the bag of dog food and poured about half of it into the container, then repeated the process with the second. Wadding up the dog food bag, he walked across to the dumpster and tossed it in.

John turned to Bobby. "Has he lost his mind?"

"I told Reggie, the owner, that he was from California. It answered all his questions."

"Bobby, he's been raised everywhere," John pointed out.

"Yeah, but he spent the last three years at Stanford." Bobby snorted. "Maybe you should have sent him to a more conservative school."

"I didn't send him," John snapped. "Besides, it's Ivy League. How much more conservative can you get?"

Bobby rolled his eyes and then Sam was back, digging in the truck again. "Here, see?" Sam said, pulling out a pair of pink bowls.

"Pink?"

"She's a girl dog, Dad," Sam said. Grabbing a scoop out of the back of the truck, he filled one of the bowls with food, then went up into the RV.

"There's two sets," Bobby commented, and John turned to look at him in surprise. "She'll have bowls in the RV and bowls inside the house."

"You're kidding."

"And he's got plans for when Dean starts traveling again. Evidently he found a whole bunch of stuff on that phone of his that's designed for animals on the go. Folding food and water dishes, ways to strap your pooch in without cramping its style, really weird stuff."

"Are you talking about a seatbelt for dogs?" John demanded. Bobby nodded. "I never even made Sam and Dean wear seatbelts."

"He's been living in _California_ , John," Bobby said again. "They have seatbelt laws there, helmet laws. You can't even smoke in restaurants!" He shook his head. "Regardless, that's not what this is about anyway."

"No?"

"What do you think Dean would do if Sam suddenly started showering him with crazy gifts and affection?" John blinked, and Bobby let out a dry chuckle. "Yeah, he'd go nuts. But a dog . . . Sam can spoil Dean's dog and Dean will probably like it. Tailor-made to let him assuage his guilt and not drive his brother crazy. Anyway, let's let Sam have his fun organizing and putting things together while you and me go get a beer."

John agreed and they went inside. Despite the relatively early hour, customers had begun to arrive, and John didn't feel up to strangers or acquaintances. He asked permission of Ellen with a look, and she nodded him towards the stairs with a roll of her eyes. He and Bobby went up to the second floor where Bobby grabbed them a couple of beers before joining John in the living room. "Weren't they supposed to be releasing the information about the case to the news today?" John asked.

"Yesterday, I thought," Bobby said. "I kept the radio off in the RV for that reason."

John turned on Ellen's satellite cable and found CNN. They were in the middle of a report on the Iraq war, so John sat back and watched. The Iraq war gave way to the economy, and then the newswoman turned to face the camera and said, "Breaking news on The Occultist." John glanced at Bobby who gave him a stunned look. "Three more bodies have been found on the outskirts of Oklahoma City, bringing the nationwide total to seventeen."

"Seventeen?" John breathed.

"Yesterday, the FBI released information regarding a serial killer they've been tracking for some weeks. The killings feature ritual mutilation which has led to the press giving this killer the name 'The Occultist.' Here is the story as we know it so far."

"Don't you just love the press calling themselves the press?" Bobby remarked parenthetically.

"Hush," John murmured.

A map of the United States suddenly filled the screen. Only the outlines of the states were shown, no other markings. "The first bodies were found in Oklahoma City in mid-October." A red dot appeared on the map and the name of the city. "The bodies of three young men were found in what the authorities are calling a cache, Ronald White, David Ketchner and Alan Lonetree." Photographs of the men appeared with their names and ages beneath them, and John swallowed an uncomfortable lump in his throat. It wasn't that they looked anything like Dean, they didn't, but they were all of them so young. 21, 19 and 24, respectively. "All three went missing in September, between leaving their homes and arriving at their places of employment. Their cars were found abandoned between a week and ten days after their disappearances."

"Son of a bitch," Bobby muttered.

The photographs shrank and slid to the left, an arrow pointing to them from the Oklahoma City dot. "In late October, two bodies were found in Lexington, Kentucky, Mark Winegold and Geoffrey Stewart." Two more pictures. These boys were both 22. "Mark Winegold vanished on October 16th, and Geoffrey Stewart went missing on October 29th, just three days before his body was found on Halloween."

"Good Lord," Bobby muttered. John found himself struck silent, and he prayed that Sam and Dean wouldn't walk in on this.

Those photos shrank and slid to the right, an arrow pointing to the Lexington dot. "No connection was made between these killings until a surviving victim was recovered in Birmingham, Alabama in early November. His identity has not yet been released, but we know that he was severely injured and required extensive hospitalization. Evidence of other victims was found where he was held, which immediately started a search for those other victims, living or dead. Shortly thereafter, six bodies were discovered in the vicinity of Birmingham. Phan Tran, Alan Clark, Michael Waverly, Jorge Ramirez, Stephen Long and Arnold Hunt." More photographs, more ages, these ranging between 18 and 26. John felt pummeled by these facts, and he wondered how he was going to break any of it to Dean. Seventeen bodies. These were clearly the eleven Denson had mentioned to them on Thursday. There were now six more to come. "Yesterday, the connection was made to six bodies that were found around the city of Decatur, Illinois during the second half of September and into October, so apparently the Decatur Ripper is, in fact, The Occultist. Those victims are Albert Klein, Daniel Parsons, Dean Clifford, Sean Burke, John Kelly and an unknown man of Asian descent."

"The FBI must be going nuts over this guy," Bobby said. "He doesn't seem to care if his victims are black, white or whatever."

"But you'll note all of them are between eighteen and twenty-eight," John said.

"We'll bring you more information as it becomes available," said the anchorwoman, and then they went on to the next topic, which appeared to have something to do with fashion. John turned it off.

"What are you going to tell Dean?" Bobby asked.

John shook his head. "I have no idea. Seventeen, Bobby. But now we have a better idea of where he was held, and if we can get dates on those disappearances, we can get an idea of when he was moved." Bobby nodded slowly, and John noticed suddenly that he had a pad of paper in his hand and a pen. "Did you write all the names down?"

Bobby nodded. "Thought it might come in helpful," he said, shrugging. "And you were a little too . . ."

When Bobby trailed off, John grimaced. "Yeah," he said. "Son of a . . . do we dare tell him? He's so fragile right now."

"Do we dare not?" Bobby asked. "If we tell him, we can couch it however we want, but if he hears it on the news, he'll hear whatever they choose to say however they choose to say it, and he'll know we didn't bother telling him. God knows what that would do to his morale."

John swallowed and nodded. "That's a good point." He shivered. "Do we wait till he's eaten, or tell him after?"

Bobby pursed his lips. "It's liable to screw with his appetite, but we don't want him getting sick. If he threw up, how many of those half-healed cuts is he going to open up?"

"I don't even want to think about it," John said. "I need to talk to Sam. You want to sit with Dean till I'm done?"

Bobby nodded and headed downstairs. John buried his face in his hands. He didn't really want to tell Sammy any more than he wanted to tell Dean.


	17. Chapter 17

_Author's Note: You're getting an early chapter because I screwed up on another website, and the only way I can think of to let the folks know it's fixed is to post another chapter and leave them a note. Enjoy!_

* * *

 **Chapter 17**

Dean awoke to the sound of crunching and a sense that the bed was emptier than it should have been. Not Sammy . . . but someone was missing. Certain needs made themselves known, so he carefully sat up.

Creaking to his feet, he looked down the hallway of the motor home and saw his baby girl eating out of what looked like a bright pink ceramic bowl. One hand on the wall, he made his way towards her and saw Bobby further along in the living area of the RV, reading a newspaper.

He lowered the paper and gave Dean an assessing look. "Sleeping beauty awakes," he remarked after a second.

"Looks like she's been awake for a couple of minutes at least," Dean said, glancing slyly at Bobby. He squatted with great care and rubbed her neck. "How are you, sweetheart? Did you have a nice nap?"

"Gag me with a spoon," Bobby said, but his tone was humorous, so Dean let it pass. "Your brother went a little overboard on the doggy doodads."

"Impossible," Dean declared. With a final scratch, he raised himself back to his feet and, giving Bobby a slight grimace, he went into the bathroom. When he came out, Lucy was waiting for him. He walked over to the sofa and sat down, and she jumped up next to him. "Hey, girl, did you hear your Great Uncle Bobby say that your Uncle Sammy had gotten you too much stuff? He doesn't understand, now, does he?" She licked him on the nose, and Dean laughed.

"Great Uncle?" Bobby demanded.

Dean looked up at him innocently. "Well, I call you my uncle, so that would make you her great uncle, right?"

"She's your daughter?"

"She's my baby girl," Dean said, rubbing his face against the top of her head while she nuzzled his neck. "In fact, Bobby, you have two great nieces."

"Two?"

"I have two babies, now," Dean replied. "Lucy and the Impala."

"The car that's older than you is your baby?"

"Yeah," Dean said with a shrug. "Why not?"

Bobby sighed. "I guess I don't know."

"Where are Dad and Sammy?" The sudden realization that he didn't know where Sam was caused his heart to start beating a bit faster. Lucy nuzzled his hand anxiously. "Are they together?" he asked, his eyes on Bobby.

"Yeah," Bobby said reassuringly. "They're talking inside."

That tone of voice had begun to grate on him. They all used it, Dad, Bobby, Sammy, and it made him all too aware of how easily he could freak out. The worst thing, though, was that he wasn't sure they weren't right. His behavior at breakfast had certainly made that seem likely. He swallowed his resentment and focused his attention on the dog while talking to Bobby. "What are they talking about?"

"Rainbows and unicorns," Bobby said, his tone heavy with sarcasm, and Dean blinked at him. "What do you think, Dean?"

"They're fighting again?"

"Who the hell knows?" Bobby said. "If they're not talking about you, they're talking about Stanford or Sam's exuberance about dog toys."

"Toys?"

"Squeaky bones, squeaky steaks, lengths of rope with knots tied in each end – pointing out that we could buy rope for way less, then cut it and knot it ourselves didn't seem to make a difference to him. The stuff from the store was meant for dogs, and nothing less would do for your Lucy."

"See," Dean said, still gazing down at his dog. "Sammy loves you, too."

Just in time to save Bobby from diabetic coma, the door opened to admit Dad and Sam. Dad seemed more than usually serious, which was cause enough for alarm, but there were massively bad vibes coming off of Sammy. Dean looked up at them, his stomach going weightless for a moment. Lucy crawled partway onto his lap, and he started stroking her head automatically. "What is it?"

Bobby stood up. "One of you come with me," he said, and his voice didn't have its usual casual sound to it. Glancing back and forth between them, he seemed to come to a decision. "Sam, I need some help."

Sam started to protest, but when both Bobby and Dad gave him a look, he shut up and went. All of this was just adding to Dean's freak out. "What's going on?" he asked.

Dad settled in the chair Bobby had vacated and sighed. "Sorry about that, your brother is a little . . ." He paused, shaking his head. "Anyway, did Bobby or I tell you that the FBI was releasing some of the details about the case to the press this weekend?"

Dean blinked at him. "The newspapers?"

John nodded. "And TV and radio. Bobby and I saw a report on CNN."

Dean shook his head. "No, I . . . did they say my name?"

"No, they didn't. You were mentioned in the story, but only as an unnamed survivor." John cleared his throat. "They did release the names of the other victims they've identified."

Dean closed his eyes. Sammy's mood had spoken volumes of bad news. "So, I take it there's way more of them than the three in Oklahoma City that I knew about."

Dad didn't say anything for a moment, and Dean opened his eyes to see his father scrutinizing his own hands. "They've found a total of seventeen now," he said.

It felt like a blow to the sternum. Lucy whined and nuzzled close, and Dean tried to let her comfort him. "Seventeen?" He considered the number. "Is that all they found?" he asked, looking up to find his father staring at him with wide eyes. That made him think again. "Actually, I suppose it's surprising they found that many. Azazel's a pretty old demon to be that clumsy." His father's expression didn't change. He looked almost dumbstruck. Dean leaned forward. "Dad, are you okay?"

That made John shake himself. "I . . . I should be asking you that, but . . . Dean, you're taking this awfully calmly."

Dean shrugged. "I knew he was killing people, Dad," he said, and his father blinked at him. "The impression I got was it was like three a week."

His father's jaw dropped. "Dean, do you . . . you know how long you were with him. Do you realize how many men that would mean?"

"I try not to think about how long it was," Dean said, focusing his attention on making the hair on Lucy's head smooth and neat.

"Of course," John said immediately. "That's all right, son, I'm sorry." He reached out to stroke Dean's hair. "I didn't mean –"

Dean hit his hand away. "Don't you coddle me," he snapped, and his father stared at him in surprise. "I'm not broken."

"I'm not coddling –"

"I'm not going to break," Dean interrupted. "You don't coddle people, so don't coddle me."

Dad shook his head. "I'm not coddling you, Dean," he said, his eyes boring into Dean's. He reached his hand towards Dean, but seemed to change direction at the last minute to pet Lucy. "It's just . . . sometimes when I look at you, I see a four-year-old."

Dean snorted. "I was never four."

"Oh, yes you were," Dad retorted. "You told me that October that you were four and three quarters, and very proud of it you were."

A strange sense of realization washed over Dean, and he didn't quite know what to do with it right off. He'd never really thought about his father's memories of that time before the fire. His own memories were so fragmentary and confused. Once Dean was talking again, Dad hadn't wanted to talk about that time. Everything was about the present, the need to keep Sammy safe, the need to keep moving.

He found himself smiling, and he felt somehow shy about it. Not sure what reaction to expect and ready to be rebuffed, he said, "I guess I do remember cowboy wallpaper."

His father's eyes softened. "So do I."

"And dressing up like a cowboy for Halloween."

John chuckled. "So do I," he said again, and Dean had a sudden flash of his father in even less authentic cowboy duds, taking him from house to house for trick or treat.

He combed his fingers through Lucy's hair and her tail wagged gently. "I also remember being utterly convinced that I'd shot the neighbor's cat with my sheriff's 6-shooter."

John's eyes widened. "What?" he exclaimed. "It wasn't even a BB gun."

"Mom had to explain to me that Buttons was old, and they'd just had to have her put down, that it had nothing to do with me, or my little gun that just went bang-bang."

His father's perplexed look broadened into a smile. "As I recall, it was more like click-click."

Dean shook his head firmly. "Sheriff's guns do not go click-click. They go bang-bang."

The chuckle returned. "Trust me, dude, it was definitely click-click."

Dean laughed. "Whatever, I remember it as bang-bang, either way."

The RV door opened and Sam walked in, followed by Bobby. Both of them stared at John and Dean like they didn't know what to think, then Bobby's lips compressed. "Didn't you have something to tell your son?" he demanded.

"I told him," John said as Dean raised his eyebrows at the tetchy remark. "And then he comforted me."

Sam walked over and sat down next to Dean on the other side of Lucy. "Dean, you know it's okay to freak out over something like this," he said in about his girliest voice yet.

Dean leaned closer to him. "Go right ahead," he said softly, and Sam stared at him in shock. "Didn't you guys hear me tell Denson that there was enough blood for a remake of _The Shining_? I wasn't kidding."

Sam didn't seem to know what to say, but after a moment of silence, Bobby said, "Okay, then."

"So, what did the news say about the ones they found? I mean, who are they?"

"Just guys . . . all between the ages of eighteen and twenty-eight," Dad said with a grimace. "I gather they've all been marked in some way. They mentioned something about ritual mutilation, and they're calling him 'The Occultist.'"

"I guess it beats his real name," Dean said. "Or the name of the poor bastard he's inhabiting."

"That will get out soon enough," John replied. "They've identified him because the demon hasn't been careful about fingerprints."

Dean grimaced. "At least they're all guys."

Sam's expression grew troubled. "The ones they've found are all guys," he said.

"No, they were all guys," Dean replied. "I think demons are kind of . . . what's the word . . . chauvinistic."

"Dean, that's not really what that means," Sam said, and Dean squinted his eyes at him. He was pretty sure he had the right word. Male chauvinist pig . . . right. "Chauvinist really means being prejudiced in favor of your own group – a chauvinist demon would –"

Dean shook his head and waved his hand for Sammy to stop talking. "Dude, Francis, I get it, and you know what I mean. He only killed guys."

"You know that for sure?" his father asked.

Dean shrugged. "He didn't have anyone but me to talk to, and I didn't have anything to do but listen." He shuddered slightly. "I know he killed one person they won't find because he wasn't a he, so the ritual would have been pointless."

"He wasn't a he?" John repeated, sounding puzzled.

"A transsexual?" Sam asked.

"I don't know, I just know he . . . she . . . didn't count. Definitely living as a guy, from what Azazel said, but I don't know how far along in the process things had gotten."

* * *

Sam hadn't really considered that notion, what gender reassignment surgery would mean in terms of gender specific ritual magic. He tilted his head consideringly. "I wonder what makes the difference there?" he asked, almost thinking aloud. His father was giving him an odd look. "I mean, I know what the difference is legally, but I'm not sure about ritually."

Dean raised his eyebrows. "What, you mean like, girl-parts-turned-inside-out-to-make-man-parts might not count?"

That was a very Dean way to put it, but it was to the point. "Maybe not," Sam replied, but then he remembered his brother's lifestyle and education. He gave Dean a startled look. "Wait . . . how do you know about that?"

"I watch daytime television," Dean returned, giving his geek brother a glare.

"Seriously?" Sam stared at him with incredulity. He said it like it was obvious, like he thought Sam should have known. "You do?"

"Sure," Dean said. "It's not all crap. There's Oprah."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Okay, yeah, her book club is really good, but to actually watch the show, any of those shows, it's just –"

"The book club is good?" Dean repeated. "Sammy, you are such a girl."

"You're the one who watches daytime television," Sam retorted.

That stopped Dean for a moment, but then he shrugged. "Yeah, well, there isn't much else to watch besides porn in crappy motel rooms, Sammy, and there's only so many times you can watch Casa Erotica 2."

"Right, Dean, and how many times is that?" Sam asked.

Rather than even trying to answer the question, Dean turned to their father. "So, when am I going to get a gun again?"

"When you can fire one without falling flat on your ass," Bobby said, and Dean turned towards him in surprise. Sam was a bit startled that Bobby was answering a question that fell firmly into their father's purview. Bobby observed their reactions with a sardonic snort. "And yeah, it was my decision. Your daddy wanted to hand you a shotgun straight out of the hospital."

"Dad!" Sam exclaimed, appalled by the idea though not overly surprised. Actually, he was stunned that his father had allowed himself to be overruled by Bobby. John gave him a darkling glare, but didn't speak.

"You wait till I get my car back. I'll . . ." Dean trailed off, and none of the rest of them knew where to look as they all realized that he was remembering that his car had been emptied out completely. "Son of a bitch," he muttered. "What did he do with all of it? I wonder if Castiel knows."

"Don't worry, Dean," John said. "I'll get you a new gun as soon as you're able to use one."

Dean still had a scowl on his face, but when their father spoke, it softened and he grinned. "Just so long as it doesn't go click-click." Both of them started laughing.

"What the hell is that about?" Bobby demanded, giving Sam an irritable look.

Sam shook his head. "I have no clue."

That just made Dean and Dad laugh louder. Sam gazed at them perplexedly for a moment, then grinned. It was good to see them laughing together. It was something he'd seen far too little of in his life.


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18**

Dean woke deep in the night and lay for a while next to his brother, trying to recapture sleep. Sammy slumbered on, oblivious and drooling slightly. Dean wondered if he was catching a cold, because Sammy didn't usually drool. Lucy, too, was in the land of rabbits that ran forever and were way fun to chase. She twitched occasionally in her sleep.

He lay back, staring up at the ceiling and contemplating the surprise of actually talking about life in Lawrence with his father. That thought led inevitably to the missing guns and other weapons, his clothes, everything that had been taken from the car. Azazel would have had no reason to keep any of it. He hardly needed guns, and he wouldn't have wanted the salt and holy water around.

A sudden whim made him wonder . . .

"Castiel?" he murmured. "You there?"

"I am here," he said, and Dean found himself looking at the underside of the angel's chin.

"I didn't expect you to come," he said.

Castiel looked down. "You called."

"Yeah, I . . ." He glanced at Sammy. "Can you make it so Sammy won't wake up?"

Castiel reached across him and touched Sammy's forehead with two fingers. "He will not awaken till I leave."

"What about Dad and Bobby?" Dean asked. Lucy stirred and looked up, whuffling softly when she saw Castiel.

The angel's brow furrowed. "You want me to disable all of them?" he asked, his hand stroking down Lucy's back as he straightened up from putting Sammy to sleep.

Dean grimaced. "Well, no."

"We will whisper."

Nodding, Dean shifted to a sitting position and pointed to the foot of the bed. "Sit down."

"I have no need to sit."

"You're looming," Dean replied, and, looking mightily uncomfortable, Castiel settled down. "Wow, you do look awkward."

With a completely straight face, Castiel said, "It is the wings." If it hadn't been for a certain twinkle in his blue eyes, Dean might have taken his words at face value.

"You could try scooting back and letting them dangle off the end of the bed," Dean suggested with a sly grin.

"Dean, why did you call me?" Castiel asked. Lucy had shifted to sit between them, and Castiel stroked her head absently.

"Because I didn't think it would work," Dean said, embarrassed. "I just . . . do you have any idea where my stuff is?"

"Your stuff?"

"The stuff Azazel took out of the Impala."

"Oh, I see, that stuff," Castiel said, and Dean waited for him to point out that none of it was important enough to merit the attention of an angel so he could apologize. "Yes, I tracked it down during my search for you."

Prepared for a gentle put down, Dean just stared at him for a second, dumbfounded by the affirmative answer. "Where is it?"

"I can tell you where it was at the times that I found the individual pieces. They are scattered quite broadly."

"Oh." Dean shrugged. "I just . . . I really wanted my guns back. And my knives."

Abruptly, Castiel was gone, and Dean wondered if he'd annoyed or offended the angel. Before he could worry too much about it, though, Castiel had returned. The angel placed the pearl-handled 1911 pistol on the bed beside Dean's legs. Lucy sniffed it curiously, not seeming remotely alarmed by the disappearing and reappearing angel. Dean picked the gun up and noticed that it was too light to be loaded. It had a pawn shop tag that said $250 on it.

"You got this out of a pawn shop?"

"Yes."

Dean found that slightly worrisome, but then a realization occurred to him. "Of course, they had it illegally."

"Yes."

Dean examined the gun minutely. "Thank you, Cas. I didn't expect you to go out and get it for me, I mean, I appreciate it, don't get me wrong, but I would never have asked you to do it."

"It is my pleasure," Castiel said, and he really seemed to mean it.

Dean gazed at him in utter befuddlement. "Cas, why did you help me?"

Castiel's eyes met his for a moment of intense connection. "You are my friend," he said, and then he was gone again, leaving Dean wondering just how he'd come to have an angel for a friend, and when it had happened. Lucy nuzzled under his hand and he scratched her head while he thought.

"Dude?" Dad came into the doorway to the bedroom. "What are you doing?" Dean held up the 1911 mutely and Dad came across the room to take it from his hands. He popped the mag out and checked the chamber to make sure it was empty. "Where'd this come from?"

"Castiel brought it for me."

"Castiel just showed up and brought you a gun?" John asked, raising his eyebrows disbelievingly.

Dean flushed. "Not exactly. I kind of . . . I didn't think he'd come, but I called him."

"And you asked him to go get you a gun?"

"No, Dad, I just asked him if he knew where any of my stuff was. Turns out he tracked it all down when he was looking for me. I didn't ask him to get anything, I just asked if he knew."

John pulled the price tag off the pistol and said, "Well, I'll give it back to you when you can shoot it without falling down."

"I could shoot it right now without falling down," Dean retorted in a heated whisper.

"Wha . . ." Sammy murmured, stirring like he was about to sit up.

"Go back to sleep, Sam," Dad ordered, and Sam subsided. "What do you mean, Dean?" he asked softly.

"It's not loaded. It would just go click-click." He saw the answering light in his father's eyes and grinned.

"Well, click-click would be bad for this gun, so I'll just hold onto it for you. Go back to sleep, Dean."

John left the room, and Dean lay back again, sure that he wasn't going to be able to manage it. Lucy wormed in between him and Sam and curled up against his back. Dean stared at the ceiling, his mind still miles from sleep. Then he felt something on his forehead that felt like two fingers pressing gently between his eyes. "No fair," he muttered as he drifted back to sleep.

* * *

The next morning, Sunday morning, they ate breakfast with Ellen and Jo again. Dean tried to stick it out awhile, but he was still getting tired awfully easily. John was leery of sending him back to bed after the way he'd woken up in the middle of the previous night, but making him stay awake didn't seem to be an answer, either. He and Sammy went back to the RV, Lucy walking along beside Dean. She was visibly gaining weight, one definite plus as far as Dean's mood went.

John avoided the bar. He didn't want to get trapped into talking to other hunters out there, but he made a few calls to pass on hunts he'd picked up on in his reading. He couldn't stop watching for them, even if he'd stopped taking them himself. Fortunately, thus far at any rate, he'd always found someone to pass them along to. A friend of Bobby's had dealt with the Wendigo John had theorized was operating in Blackwater Ridge, and Travis had worked the airplane job. That had sounded like a strange one, but John didn't have any details of its resolution, just that it had been resolved before the last potential victim had died.

It was strange, passing hunts on to other people. Still, Dean was the most important thing right now, and Dean needed him. Even with Bobby and Sammy here, Dean needed him too.

He kept up his research, looking for signs of other children like Sammy, widening it to account for possible paranormal talents. It just added another facet to his search. Ellen cleared off the desk in the TV room to give him someplace to work and watched over his shoulder for a while before going back downstairs to tend bar and dispense wisdom to hunters.

Sam went out and picked up Chinese food for them that night and they ate in the RV. Dean was pretty quiet, but nothing out of the ordinary for him lately. John spent a restless night once they'd all gone to bed. He kept waking and going to check on the boys. The only one who was ever awake when he went in, though, was Lucy. She seemed to be watching Dean, and, curious, he watched for a while as well. After about ten minutes of just standing there, John saw Dean start to twitch and his face took on a pained, anxious expression. He started forward, but Lucy nuzzled Dean's face and licked his cheek, and Dean calmed. The dog looked at him then and he could swear she was asking if he was satisfied.

Nonplussed and still very tired, John went back to bed.

* * *

Sam woke to a bouncing mattress as Dean, heedless of his sleeping brother, played with Lucy on the bed. "Who's my good girl? Who's my good girl?" Dean chanted, pulling on one end of the rope toy while Lucy held on to the other for dear life. Lucy put a foot in the center of Sam's bladder and Sam rolled out of bed in a hurry. "Good morning!" Dean called cheerily. Sam gave him a harried look and hurried into the bathroom.

As he washed his hands, he contemplated the fact that they were probably going to have to take this thing somewhere to get it pumped out soon. He made a mental note to ask Bobby about it later. When he emerged from the bathroom, there was nowhere for him to even sit on the bed. Dean and the dog had taken over the entire mattress with their tussle. "Dean, are you sure you should be rolling around like that? What if something opens up?"

"I feel great, Sammy," Dean said. "Better than I have in a long time."

Sam gazed at him anxiously. "That's wonderful, Dean, but you don't want to overextend yourself."

Dean gave him a glower. "I'm fine, Sammy. Is it time for breakfast yet?"

"I don't know, I've been up for less time than you have."

"You boys are making enough of a racket for three," Bobby groused from the front of the RV. "It's a little past seven. Go on inside if you think you'll be welcome."

"I know, Sammy, why don't you take me out for breakfast? You must have seen a diner when you went out looking for dog food and stuff."

"I somehow doubt we can take Lucy into a diner," Sam pointed out, and Dean slumped.

"Does anyone want to know what I think?" Dad said from the floor.

"Sure?"

"I think the boys should go outside to play."

Dean's eyes widened. "Okay!" He was out the door with Lucy in about twenty seconds.

"Dad!" Sam exclaimed. "It's cold out there."

"Then put on some clothes and get out there," Dad ordered.

Sam scrambled into something that probably looked hilarious and followed Dean out. Before he'd taken two steps away from the RV, a snowball hit him in the side of the face. Outraged, he looked around and saw the next one coming. Dodging, he ran to one of the drifts by the edge of the parking lot, slipping a little on the ice as he went. A snowball pegged him on the ass, and then it was on. They ran around like kids, Lucy scampering back and forth between them, till Dean sagged to the ground, breathing big, icy gouts of air Sam hurried across to him, worried, but before he could express that worry, the back door of the bar opened.

"Anyone want hot chocolate?" Ellen called, and Sam paused only long enough to help Dean up. They both came panting into the kitchen of the bar and Ellen led them upstairs where there was hot chocolate and pancakes and sausage.

* * *

After his early morning activities, John expected Dean to collapse well before noon, but he hung in there, sitting in Ellen's living room playing checkers with his brother until after one. Then he and Sammy went back to the RV. Bobby and John were working upstairs, Bobby reading through John's notes to see if there was anything he'd missed. Ellen came up and said, "Bobby, seems like there's a package for you."

"It came?" Bobby said, looking up, sounding pleased.

"No, actually, it didn't. Evidently the Post Office doesn't want to deliver it because your name isn't on our . . . hell, I don't know. Anyway, they put this in the box." She handed him a slip of paper. "I guess you take it to the Post Office and they'll give you your package."

"Balls," Bobby muttered. "You need anything from town while I'm there?"

"I've got a list," she said with a smile, handing him that, too. "Take Jo."

Bobby took it, snorting. "You need anything, John?"

"Newspapers," John said, digging the keys to the truck out of his pocket. "If there's a newsstand, I'd like any of the regional dailies you can find."

"Got it. Catch you all later."

Ellen went back downstairs and John kept working. After a while, though, he felt the need for some coffee. He got up and went down into the kitchen, where he found Ellen preparing for the evening's custom. He poured himself a cup of coffee and started doctoring it.

"You know, John," Ellen said from behind him. "We're going to have to talk about it sooner or later."

"Talk about what?" John asked uncertainly, turning around.

"This business between us needs settled, and now's as good a time as any. The boys are out of range, Bobby's off with Jo. It's just you and me and the bar's closed."

John shook his head. "Ellen, I don't know what you're talking about," he said, hoping she'd let it drop. Given the way she'd set things up, though, he somehow doubted it.

"I'm pissed at you for letting Bill die," Ellen announced, and John flinched, looking away. "Not nearly as pissed as you are at yourself, though." John didn't look up, but that wasn't where he'd expected her to go. "But both of us are irrational for blaming you for something you couldn't possibly predict."

Swallowing a lump in his throat, John looked up. "It was my fault, Ellen. I made a mistake . . . a rookie's mistake."

"You were a rookie, John," she pointed out with a certain wry humor. "Not the juggernaut you're widely believed to be now."

John gave her a dubious look. "Juggernaut?" he repeated.

"Don't you know what your reputation is among other hunters?"

Shrugging, John said, "Pamela described me as brooding and paranoid."

Ellen snickered. "Yeah, I guess that's part of it, but you are thought to be unstoppable, unkillable and exceptionally knowledgeable." John snorted, but Ellen leaned forward. "John, most hunters are specialized. Gordon Walker and Daniel Elkins hunt vampires, Jason Quigley hunts ghouls and zombies, Matthew Forester hunts werewolves. Almost no one goes after everything. At least no one who lives to tell about it."

"I'm nothing special, Ellen, and I don't believe people talk about me like that."

"Ask Bobby," she said. "Besides, that's not the point. You didn't go out and get Bill killed out of pride or because you were pulling some grandiose stunt, but I've never really been able to deal with my feelings on the subject because you up and disappeared, taking those boys of yours with you."

John stared at her. "Ellen, I –"

"I think that's what makes me the angriest, John. You delivered his body, you stuck around long enough to see him buried, and then you vamoosed and I never heard from you again. Not till Dean went missing."

"I figured seeing me would just bring it all back, that you wouldn't want me around."

Ellen shook her head sharply. "You felt guilty and you didn't want to face me or Jo." John turned right around and took a long swallow of coffee. "Don't think I didn't notice how you avoided Jo on your last trip back, or how you've been trying to avoid her now." He heard her moving closer, then he felt her hand on his back. "We could have helped each other, John."

"I couldn't have helped anyone. It's only been in the last three months that I could think of Mary, talk about Mary, without falling apart."

Ellen was silent for a moment, then she pulled on his shoulder to get him to turn around. "I knew you couldn't bear to have her mentioned back then, but when you talked about it the other night, I figured . . . are you saying you never talked to those boys about their mama?"

He sensed a measure of disapproval in her tone, and he shrugged helplessly. "What good would it have done them for me to talk to them about their mother if it doing it made me hysterical?"

* * *

Ellen stared at him, stunned by this insight. "Not a lot," she said after a moment.

John grimaced and turned his head away. "Look, I know you lost Bill," John said, "and I know it's the same thing." Listening to him, Ellen had begun to wonder if it was remotely the same thing. She'd loved Bill, and she missed him something awful, but she'd moved on. John met her eyes with a searing intensity. "It's like it was yesterday, Ellen, and it hurts the same every time I think of it."

"Have you ever had another relationship?" Ellen asked gently.

John let out a deep sigh. "Yes, once. I thought Sammy needed a mom and Dean needed a break, and I liked her. She seemed . . ." He shook his head, his expression shuttered. "She turned out to be a demon, and she actually tried to take Sammy away."

"My God!" Ellen murmured, appalled.

"After that, I didn't let anyone near the boys, not long term like that. I didn't dare."

And it meant he didn't dare take comfort for himself. "So, have you never, since then, had any –"

John flushed. "I didn't say . . . there've been a few . . . nothing that lasted more than a few days." His eyes widened.

Ellen waited, but he didn't say anything. "John, is something wrong?"

"I just . . . we were saying no secrets, right?" He gave her a worried, anxious look.

"We were – Castiel was, at any rate." She grabbed him by the shoulder and led him out to a table in the bar. "Okay, John, what is it?"

John looked down at his coffee cup, then glanced over towards the RV. "The boys can't know what I'm about to tell you."

"No secrets?" she asked.

"This is . . . different, but someone should know in case something comes up when I'm not around."

"John, what is it?"

"I have another son."

Ellen's jaw dropped. "You . . . when?"

"Back in 1990, I got myself hurt bad on a hunt. Almost died." Ellen nodded. "The nurse who patched me up – I told her what was going on, she understood, and the local sheriff actually helped me hunt the sucker down and kill him when I was better."

"That's unusual."

John shrugged. "Well, we kind of . . . anyway, she never called me, she never told me, but about two and a half years ago the boy himself called."

"So he's, what, fourteen?"

"Fifteen," John replied.

"Have you met him?"

"Yeah," John said.

"Are the two of you . . . close?" Ellen asked.

John shook his head. "He's a good kid, but he's basically a stranger, and I don't have a lot to give him. I can't even be the weekend dad that most guys would be in this kind of situation. I've done a few things with him, but he doesn't know anything about hunting, and I'd just as soon it stayed that way."

"I can understand that." Ellen pursed her lips. "But his mama knows?" John nodded. "Does either of them know about your boys?"

"Kate knows. Adam doesn't. She agrees that in the circumstances, that's best."

"Because of the hunting?"

"If you could keep Jo out of the life, wouldn't you?"

"I've tried and failed, but I take your meaning." Ellen sighed. "You're going to have to tell Bobby, you know, and Castiel if he doesn't know already."

John nodded, looking dismayed and resigned. Neither of them spoke for a long moment, and then John cleared his throat. "I am sorry. About Bill, I mean. More sorry about Jo growing up without him."

"I know," she said, putting her hand on his. After a moment, he got up and left, and she figured he'd had as much emotional talk as he could take.

She got up and got back to work. John really didn't seem to realize that he was an exceptional hunter. One thing she'd accepted long ago was that if it hadn't been that hunt that had done Bill in, it would have been another one. Her husband had been a reasonably good hunter, but few hunters who went out in the field regularly lived more than ten years after they got started. By that standard, Bill had already been living on borrowed time when he died.

Shaking her head, she turned her thoughts to more positive subjects.

* * *

 _Author's Note: FYI, in the story about Bill, I actually used the semi-canonical source material of John's published journal, which came out in 2009 rather than the very brief and highly emotionally charged scene in S2E6 No Exit. There's nothing mutually exclusive in the two accounts._


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19**

Jerry Panowski shook his head in appalled astonishment at the news. A serial killer called The Occultist who'd attacked one of the Winchester boys? He had a powerful suspicion that this fellow wasn't just a serial killer. Maybe not even a human. It impelled him to make a phone call, however.

"Hello?"

"John, hi, it's Jerry Panowski. I wanted to call and thank you for sending your friend to help with my problem. That Travis guy is kind of rough around the edges, but he got the job done. The airplane is safe now, and so are the remaining crew and passengers."

"Oh . . . I'm glad."

"I'd wondered why you didn't come yourself, but now that I've seen this stuff on the news, I completely understand. Thanks for even thinking about me while you were going through such a terrible time."

"Just what did you see on the news?" John asked, sounding startled.

"Well, that serial killer down south? They just said on the news that the single survivor that was found is Dean Winchester. That is your Dean, isn't it?"

There was a brief silence, then John said, "I didn't know they'd released his name yet."

Jerry grimaced. "I'm sorry. If it's any help, it didn't sound like it was an official release. They talked about 'sources.' They don't talk that way when it's a direct release from law enforcement. How is Dean?"

"He's okay, thanks, Jerry," John said. "Look, I've got another call coming in. Can I –"

"Of course, of course, I just wanted to thank you. Tell Dean I wish him all the best."

"I will."

* * *

Jim Murphy was putting together ideas for his Christmas Day sermon. Christmas didn't fall on a Sunday very often, and that made it feel very important to get the message right. He had the news on, hoping that some story would come up that might give him a good anecdote to build his sermon around.

He sat back to listen to a segment on food closets, but it was far too general a story. A couple of profiles might have been helpful. He turned back to his page of notes on charity and giving. The next story started, this one about the latest serial killer to come to light. Not Christmas morning fare, at least not at his church. After a moment, though, he heard something, a name, that made him look up. Dean Winchester. They were wrapping up the story, though, and he didn't know what they'd said about him. He'd known Dean was missing for some weeks, but he hadn't heard any news, and this sounded like the worst of all possible bad news.

He pulled out his phone and paused briefly, trying to decide whether he should call John or someone else. Shaking his head, he dialed John's number.

"Hello?" John said gruffly.

"John, it's Jim Murphy," Jim said. "Have you heard anything about Dean?"

"Shit, Jim! I forgot to call you," John said. He didn't sound devastated, but Jim knew John well enough to know that he was capable of putting on masks to fool even himself.

"And Dean is . . ."

"Sitting upstairs, watching some TV show on Sammy's computer."

"Sam?" Jim repeated. "Sam's with you?"

"He helped me find Dean," John replied.

"John, I just saw something on the news connecting Dean to a serial killer. What's going on?"

"The Occultist," John said, and though he'd heard the media nickname before, now it hit Jim between the eyes.

"So, not a serial killer?" Jim said slowly.

"We really shouldn't be talking about this on the phone, Jim," John said, and Jim was reminded of his friend's paranoia. "Heaven knows what . . . or who might be listening in."

"Where are you?"

"The Roadhouse," John replied.

"I'll be there as soon as I can get there. Dean's okay, though?"

"He's getting better all the time," John said, and that answer made Jim even more anxious. He hung up, grabbed a few of his things and hurried out to his car. Paranoia . . . maybe John had been right all these years. It wasn't paranoia if things were actually after you.

* * *

Jeremy Sothers found this Occultist guy fascinating and terrifying at the same time. He didn't fall into the guy's age range, if the cops were right about that, which made him feel a little less nervous, but he spent a lot of time driving through the Midwestern states. For all he knew he'd met the guy. How people like that operated made him intensely curious.

So, when the news came on in a bar in Nashville, he asked the bartender to turn it up. "Did you hear they found a survivor?" the bartender asked.

Jeremy nodded. "I can't imagine what it must be like to survive something like that. It's not like war, where most of the violence is pretty impersonal, but to come out of –" He broke off. "What did they just say?"

"They've identified the survivor," said a guy closer to the TV. "Dean Winchester."

Jeremy focused his attention on the news again. ". . . early September in Nebraska, and then he was found more than two months later near Birmingham, AL. So far as anyone can tell, he is the first victim to be abducted, which has led to wild speculation."

Jeremy gulped. He'd run into a guy named Dean Winchester in Lincoln, Nebraska, during the first week in September. They'd spent a perfectly awesome night together, and then Jeremy had gone his way and Winchester had gone his. If that was him . . . Jeremy pulled his phone off his belt and scrolled through till he'd found the number. D. Winch. He pressed Send and lifted the phone to his ear. He got a message telling him the phone was no longer in service.

Birmingham. Not more than a three hour drive. He could be there before midnight.

* * *

Lisa Braeden finally got Ben to play quietly in his room and went out into the living room to collapse on the sofa. She'd thought teaching yoga was energy intensive. A full day of classes had nothing on wrangling a bunch of first graders during the dress rehearsal for their school Christmas pageant. She flipped the TV on and stared at the screen for several moments before her brain got back in gear. It was on CNN from this morning before work. Words started percolating into her mind before she was paying full attention.

Abruptly, a name caught her attention, and she ran the live television back a few seconds. The anchor was looking solemnly into the camera. Lisa had caught her in mid-sentence, but she was far enough back to get the information she wanted.

". . . and we can tell you exclusively that the sole surviving victim is Dean Winchester, a drifter who was abducted in the small town of Beatrice, Nebraska in early September. He was not found by the police, nor by the FBI, who are now investigating the case, but instead his family tracked him down to an abandoned Shriner's Hall outside Birmingham, Alabama."

Lisa sat forward and looked intently at the burned out building that was shown on screen, wondering if this could possibly be the same Dean Winchester she'd met in 1998. He'd been a drifter, or she wouldn't have hooked up with him, and he'd talked a little bit about his family.

They didn't show a photo, though, which made it difficult to be sure. Not that it mattered. If it was him, the last thing he needed right now was for a random girl he'd known for two days seven years ago to show up and expect his attention. She flipped channels to find something watchable and stopped on _Law & Order_. Even when they lost the case, it was more cheerful than the news.

* * *

Grace snapped off the radio. "Hell, I was hoping they'd manage to keep his name dark a little longer than this."

"Why do people think that victims of crimes ought to be outed to the whole world?" Rhetta asked. "Damn it."

They'd left Oklahoma City just after the arrest late in the morning. Ham had offered to take care of Grace's paperwork, and Rhetta's was already done. Grace still thought that made her an overachiever. "Where's the next turn?"

"Have we gone a hundred and sixty-four miles yet?"

"More like one hundred and forty-eight."

"Well, we'll be taking something called Center Road, US 81 North once we hit that hundred and sixty-four miles."

"That's the last really long stretch, isn't it?"

"It is. Shouldn't be more than two and half, three hours till we get there now."

"Good. I gotta pee."

"Grace!"

* * *

Dean lay at full length on the sofa in Ellen's living room upstairs from the bar. Lucy had stretched herself out along his body, her chin on his chest. He had his left hand on the sofa beside him, and his right hand rested on her back, stroking through her soft fur from time to time.

Sam's laptop lay on the coffee table, and Dean was finally trying to catch up on _Doctor Sexy_. The show was having trouble holding his attention, though. His mind kept whirling from subject to subject. He wanted to know where Azazel was now. After all, the demon had put months into holding him and marking him, and he wasn't done. It seemed unlikely that he'd just given in tamely. Dean checked his pocket for the pistol he'd slipped into it to guarantee escape if Azazel showed up and got past everyone else.

Bobby was still off in town with Jo, Dad was downstairs doing something that involved a hammer and nails for Ellen, and Sam was in the RV having some 'alone time.' He was by himself with no other people in the room, something that hadn't been allowed for ages. He thought the dog was a big piece of that, though, and if he didn't have any other reason to be grateful to her, he would be grateful for that.

And when Sammy went back to school, he'd have her to comfort him. That would be a good thing.

He noticed suddenly that the screen on Sam's laptop had gone still on the last credits for the episode, and he had no recollection about what had happened. He reached down and grabbed the back scratcher he'd snagged from Ellen's desk. Using it, he reached out and shut the computer, then pulled the TV remote into reach. Maybe something on TV would catch his attention more firmly.

The screen popped on with a hum, then a pretty face filled the screen. ". . . blizzard," she said, and clearly it was the end of a sentence. The angle of the camera changed, and she turned to face it. "In other news, three more bodies have been found in Paris, Kentucky." Video footage took her place then with a caption that read _Occultist Dump Site_. Police could be seen, as well as emergency workers, but the view was from too great a distance to see what they were working on. "As more news has reached us, a question arises. If the police in Beatrice had not ignored a missing persons report in November, would those young men have died?" Dean's attention was abruptly riveted by the town name. "A car belonging to a drifter named Dean Winchester was impounded in Beatrice, Nebraska on September 9th of this year. On November 8th, he was reported missing there by his father, John, but the police in Beatrice refused to investigate, claiming insufficient evidence existed that a crime had been committed. Within a week, Dean Winchester was rescued from the serial killer who has come to be called 'The Occultist' by his father and brother, who apparently took the investigation into their own hands when the police would not take action. Bernard Wilson, the Police Chief in Beatrice, refused to be interviewed for this story.

"The FBI have initiated a nationwide manhunt to catch 'The Occultist', so named for the strange symbols he carves into the skin of his victims." There was more, but Dean didn't hear it.


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20**

Barking from upstairs made John stop in the middle of transferring Dean's bedding from Ellen's washer to her dryer. Lucy had been an abnormally well-behaved dog thus far, so he didn't know whether to think she was finally showing a bit of bad behavior, or if there was something wrong. He took off up the stairs, and the minute he got in sight, she stopped barking and withdrew into the living room where they'd left Dean. John found that not at all reassuring. He hurried after her and found her next to Dean, who was huddled in a corner, hands over his face, whimpering and cringing. Lucy gave a soft whine as she looked imploringly up at him.

John nodded at her, just like she had any idea what that head movement meant, and squatted down next to his son. "Dean?" he said, not touching him immediately. "Dude, you hear me?" There was no apparent effect, so John reached out and put his hand on Dean's shoulder. Before he could do more than draw breath to speak, his son reacted violently, shoving him backwards and taking off towards the door. John had thoughtfully closed it behind him, and Dean scrabbled frantically at it. "Dean!" John shouted, hoping against hope that volume would help get through to him. "Dean Michael Winchester," he barked.

Dean whirled and put his back up against the door, his eyes wide and still full of panic. He looked at John and seemed to recognize him, but he was still breathing hard, still filled with tension, frozen in place apart from the heaving of his chest. "Dean, it's Dad," John said, and Dean just stared at him. John took a tentative step forward. "Dean, I –" He broke off, realizing that Dean's gray t-shirt was developing a new pattern. "You're bleeding," he said. Dean looked down and saw the blood marking his shirt. John took another step forward. "Hold still, son, I need to –"

Dean's hands came up to ward him off. "No, no!" he begged. "I don't need treatment. Please, no, it will stop on its own."

"Dean, I'm not going to hurt you."

"No!" Dean cringed away from him. "I don't need treatment. I'll get better, I promise."

John hated having to force him, but in actuality, Dean didn't put up much of a fight. It hurt John's heart how easy it turned out to be to get Dean to let him look him over. Trembling like a frightened horse, Dean stood still while John pulled his shirt up and off over his head. The bandages were bloody in front and on the left side, but Dean's back and right side seemed to be clear. "Sam is going to kill me," he muttered and sat Dean down in a chair. Lucy walked over and leaned against Dean's legs, trying to comfort him. Grimacing, John started undoing his younger son's careful work.

Peeling tape off the fragile skin made John extremely nervous, but there were one or two of the spots under the tape that had split, so he really didn't have a choice. "Hold still," he murmured, but he needn't have bothered. Despite the way he was shaking, Dean didn't move an inch. John managed to pull the tape off, sponge up the blood and he used butterfly bandages to hold the cuts closed before reapplying gauze over the top. He'd thought Sam was overreacting when he'd made sure to leave a kit in the room with Dean, but apparently it was necessary.

When he was done, John held out a fresh shirt and Dean gazed at him perplexedly. "Put it on, son," John said.

"Dad?" Dean murmured in a tone of discovery, and John realized that whatever he'd said earlier, whatever Dean had recognized earlier, it had borne little connection to reality.

"Yeah, dude, it's me," John said, putting his hands on Dean's shoulders. Abruptly, Dean slammed into him, and John wrapped his arms around his son. Dean began to weep noiselessly into John's chest. John only knew he was crying from the spasmodic jerkiness of his breathing and the damp patches on his shirt. "It's okay, Dean, you're safe. You're with me, and you're safe." Lucy leaned in against Dean, and John thanked God that she'd come. He couldn't begin to guess how long Dean would have squatted in this room, bleeding and terrified, if Lucy hadn't been there.

* * *

Dean felt utterly humiliated. He'd freaked out at a stupid news story, his dog had had to call his Dad to come get him out of it, he'd managed to break open his damned wounds, and now Sam felt like he had to double check their father's work.

"I've bound wounds up before, Sam," John said.

"I know, Dad," Sam replied. "But this is . . . it's just . . ."

"I know."

Dean had been expecting an explosion from his father, not agreement and a sympathetic hand on Sam's shoulder. Sam peeled back a patch of gauze and nodded. "Dean, you okay?"

"I'm a little cold," he said, and was gratified that Sam quickly taped the bandage back down and let him lower his shirt. Turning his back on his father and brother, he sat down on the sofa and patted the seat next to him to call Lucy up. "Why don't you guys go away? Me and Lucy got stuff to talk about."

Behind him, he heard Sammy ask, "Do you think we dare?" He probably thought he was being quiet, but they weren't more than five feet away, and Dean had always had good ears.

"It will be fine, Sam," John said. "Come on. Dean, we'll call you when it's time for dinner."

Dean waved a hand and otherwise ignored them till the door closed. Dean reached down and started stroking Lucy's head. "It's a good thing I have you, sweetheart," he murmured, and she snuggled closer. "Because no other woman is ever going to look at me twice again." Memories swam forward in his mind, not as he might have expected, memories of Grace, who he'd just talked to, but memories of the bendiest weekend of his life. He wondered what his father would think of Lisa Braeden. He'd never been overly judgmental about Dean's sexual escapades, but what would Dad think if he knew that Dean still had dreams that featured Lisa, and not just sexual dreams. They'd spent a whole weekend together, and even two young, fit people couldn't keep going for a full seventy-two hours, no matter how much caffeine they drank. They'd talked a fair amount, about her family, about his. He knew she had five brothers and two sisters and that she came from a devout Catholic family, though that was no surprise. With eight children they almost had to be either Catholic or Mormon.

He'd had dozens of casual encounters, but very few of the women came back to his mind without external summoning, and of those, he'd only ever been serious about one, and that was Cassie Robinson. Café au lait skin, big, dark eyes and a sweet smile. He'd come close to loving her, but everything they'd had together had been lost for him when she'd accused him of making his life story up out of whole cloth as an excuse to dump her. Cassie had reminded him in odd ways of Sammy, a crusading spirit, blazing intelligence, and the tiniest bit self-focused.

Of all the women he'd been with, there were two he dreamed about with any frequency, Lisa and Cassie. Lisa had been smart and sassy and she'd had a zest and verve to her that made her enormously fun. Cassie had been intense and serious, which had its own appeal. Still, when he'd dreamed of Lisa, he woke up feeling cheerful and ready for the day, and a little frisky. When he'd dreamed of Cassie, he woke up irritable and dissatisfied. Fortunately, he rarely dreamed of Cassie, but a month rarely went by when he didn't have a dream about Lisa. What that meant, he really didn't know, but it hardly mattered now. No woman was going to want to have sex with him once she'd seen the mess of scars and burns his skin had become. And somehow, having sex with his t-shirt on didn't appeal.

The door opened behind him and Sammy walked in. "I got away from Dad," Sam said, walking around the sofa and kneeling down by the coffee table. "You want me to start up _Doctor Sexy_ again? It wasn't that that made you –"

Dean raised a hand. "No, Sammy. I couldn't concentrate on it, so I turned on the TV."

Sam glanced over at the TV, a crease between his brows. "What happened, then?"

"Does it matter?" Dean asked, giving him a long-suffering look. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Dean, I want to make sure I can keep it from happening –"

"Sammy, leave it," Dean said. "I don't want to talk about it and I'm not going to."

"Look, Dean, we need to know what causes your –"

Dean stood up abruptly. "I'm going downstairs." He whistled. "Come on, Lucy," he said, and the dog jumped down from the sofa, her claws clicking against the hardwood floor.

"Dean, the bar's full at this hour."

"I don't care," Dean said, and he left the room.

* * *

"I didn't think Bobby Singer ever left his lair except for a quick hunt and back home again."

"It happens from time to time," Ellen told Dwight as she topped off his glass. The crowd was shaping up to be huge for a Monday night. "I take it the hunt went okay?"

"Well, I've still got all my fingers," Dwight said, laughing. "Can't be all bad." He glanced around. "I see a few new faces. Who are the kids?"

Ellen looked over at Sam in the corner and Dean who was playing darts with an intensity that was starting to draw attention. Or maybe it was the skill. He just kept throwing darts, over and over again, always landing them in the bullseye. "Sam and Dean Winchester," she said. "Their daddy's around here somewhere, too."

"Hell, I never thought I'd ever see a Winchester. Thought they didn't mingle with us riff raff." Dwight elbowed his neighbor, a man whose name Ellen didn't know. He just rolled his eyes. Dwight had been hunting for about two years. He wasn't wet behind the ears by any stretch of the imagination, but he was young enough and new enough to still have more enthusiasm than most. "For such a weedy guy, he can throw a mean dart."

"He ain't weedy," said the man Ellen didn't know.

"He looks awful skinny to me," Dwight said.

"He's not weedy," the man repeated. "He's sick."

"What's he got?" Dwight asked.

"Really good hearing and a bad case of the screw-yous!" Dean called from twenty feet away. He threw a final dart and then walked across to pull the lot of them out. Ellen controlled a grin.

Dwight's neighbor snorted. "Dumbass," he muttered, then glanced at her. "I haven't seen hide nor hair of John Winchester in ten years. How's he doing?"

Ellen shrugged, not inclined to do John's answering for him, especially not to a man she didn't know. "He's around here somewheres. You can ask him."

The man nodded and seemed to lose interest. Ellen kept up with the customers. It wasn't too terribly busy this early in the evening, but hunters were like anyone else. They liked to wet their whistle at all times of the day, and some of them were apt to drown themselves in alcohol. Dean drew a crowd as the afternoon wore on into evening, though. The betting got pretty heated as dart after dart went straight for the black.

Dean turned around and glanced at the fella keeping the bets and grinned. "You boys do realize that I get a cut of this, right?" They all laughed and Dean kept throwing for another ten or fifteen minutes. She saw Sam watching his brother while pretending to work on his computer. The pretense had gotten thinner as the time went by, but he hadn't quite gotten to the point of going over and intervening when Dean stopped. "Okay, I've had enough."

"Come on, just one more round," suggested Louie, a hunter from New York.

"Pay up," Jack retorted. "He stopped, you lose."

Dean shook his head, and she could see he was amused by the betting and by the subject of the betting. He crossed over to the door to the upstairs and then paused. "Hey, Sammy!" he called, and everyone stopped to look at him. "I think I'll take a nap," he announced, and Sam gave him an exasperated look. Then he revealed one more dart that she hadn't even seen him take with him. He threw the one last dart from all the way across the room, and left before it even hit the target. Dead in the black, just like all the others. Ellen laughed. Within minutes, Sam had packed up his laptop and was disappearing upstairs.

"What are they, married?" asked a dry voice behind her, and she pegged the speaker as an elderly hunter named Whittier.

"Hell, if your brother looked like that, wouldn't you worry about him?" replied Marvin. He was another old hunter. Both of them had quit and just hung around Harvelle's about three days out of every week, offering advice to the young guys.

"If my brother looked like that, I'd bury him," Whittier shot back, and both of them laughed. Ellen rolled her eyes and kept working. Hunters could be as stupid or as funny as the rest of the world, they just tended to do whatever they did on fast forward. Not many of them made it to Whittier's age. At sixty, with half his left leg amputated and only one eye, he was an example of what could happen if you were lucky.

John came down around seven and she saw the man she didn't know catch him. They went to a table and talked for a good hour. Seeing as John didn't seem irritated by the intrusion, she pegged the guy as provisionally okay. He and John finished their conversation and the man went on his way. John walked over towards where Bobby was holding court with some of his cronies. Then she heard a voice from the bar call out, "Hey, Winchester, you the guy on the news, the one whose boy got grabbed by the serial killer?"

John turned and scanned the bar. She couldn't be sure which guy had spoken, but he narrowed in on Adalberto Costi, known as Bertie to his friends and Addled Bertie to those who didn't like him so much. Ellen considered him to be a dabbler. He had reason to hunt, he had a brother who'd died bloody, but he didn't really have the guts to go out there and do what it took to get the job done. Instead he hung out where there were hunters and tried to get someone to take him along. Since at least two of the fellows who'd shepherded him hadn't come back, he tended to get given a wide berth by the experienced guys. Newbies sometimes got suckered in, though.

John's eyes were cold as agates, gazing at him. "Yeah, that's me," he said, his voice smooth and menacing.

Ellen cast her mind back. Addled hadn't been there when Dean had been downstairs. She wondered if he'd heard, though. "So where is he, your boy? And how come he lived when all the others died?"

John shrugged. "My boy is upstairs," he said. "And he lived because he wasn't one of the lucky ones." Silence filled the room at that statement as the gathered hunters absorbed John's words. Bobby grimaced but didn't disagree. She didn't know that she did either. She'd seen the photos that Sam had downloaded from the police and FBI.

"Is it a hunt, John?" asked Corbett Evans. He'd been hunting about three years, and looked to be likely to last awhile.

"It's my hunt," John replied shortly. "Bobby, Sam's upstairs with something we should get a look at." John glanced around and then turned his back on the company. Leaning over the bar, he spoke in a voice meant for her only. "Ellen, would you make a list of guys you know and trust? I still get calls, and I'm running out of folks to pass them on to."

"Sure, John," she said just as quietly, a little startled. John and Bobby left the room, and a hubbub rose.

Ellen could tell that a lot of the conversations were about Dean and John, and she had a feeling that she owed her full house to word of mouth and the presence of the Winchesters in Elgin. She overheard Jo telling one of the patrons that she didn't know anything about John's hunt and sweetly changing the subject. By ten, the bar was full up, and she had to hope the fire marshal didn't pick tonight for a spot inspection.

She kept her eye on the crowd, not sure what to expect. Hunters were as dumb as anybody, and not everyone who'd shown up tonight got on well together. Jo managed to head off a couple of fights, and Ellen defused at least one more, but at half past ten, belligerence turned to bellicosity over by the pool table. Ellen was grateful at least that it was over there and not by the tables. She didn't need to buy any more chairs this month.

They knocked into a woman who'd been watching a match, spilling her beer. The woman shoved them back and yelled something about this being why God invented parking lots. When that didn't stop them, Ellen decided she'd had enough. She pulled her Super Soaker out from under the bar and filled it from her refrigerated tap. Then she leveled it and let the combatants have it. Her aim wasn't nearly so good as Dean's, but it was more than adequate to the task.

After a second they broke apart. "Enough, boys. Head on out, both of you."

When both guys looked like they were going to argue, their friends hustled them out. It thinned the crowd a little, but she didn't mind that so much. She put the Super Soaker under the bar again and went back to making drinks. When she turned back towards the pool tables, she found the woman with the spilled beer standing at the bar. She was a blonde with feathers clipped into her hair and a winning smile. Ellen grinned back at her. "Hey, honey, let me get you a fresh beer," she said, drawing a glassful and delivering it to her. "Anything else I can do for you?"

"I don't know," she drawled. "Do you know anything about angels?" Ellen felt her eyes widen at the sarcastic answer. The woman's eyes narrowed slightly, and she leaned closer and spoke very quietly. "I'm guessing you do, at that. I'm here to see Dean Winchester."

Ellen raised her eyebrows. "Wait right here," she said.

The woman shrugged, and Ellen went into the kitchen. Sam was there, grabbing some snacks for upstairs. "Sam, get your father for me, would you?"

"Sure, is something wrong?"

"I don't think so."

Sam nodded and hurried back upstairs. A moment later John came down. "What is it?" he asked.

"There's a woman out there who wants to see Dean," Ellen said, then gestured with her head. "She's at the bar."


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter 21**

John went out into the bar and Ellen nodded toward a woman who sat on a stool near the pool tables. She was not very big, with long blond hair. Ellen gestured with her eyes when John came up behind her, and the woman turned. Raising her eyebrows, she tilted her head. "And who might you be?" she asked archly.

"John Winchester," he said. "And you are?"

Her eyes snapped mischievously. "Princess Little Feather," she said with a smirk. John blinked at her. She was older than she looked at first glance, he realized.

Ellen snorted. "Hell, if you'd told me that, we could have saved some time and anxiety. John, take her in the kitchen. I don't think you two need to be talking out here."

John nodded and took a step back, gesturing for Grace Hanadarko to precede him. She wore jeans and a fleece-lined jacket over a very brief top, and there wasn't a purse in sight. A police officer alone in a hunter's bar, sort of the reverse of the situation Dean had found himself in on the night he'd met her. When they got into the kitchen, she walked a few feet inside and then turned around. "So, where's Dean?"

"Upstairs, sleeping," John said. He wasn't sure what he thought of this woman driving for a full day to visit Dean without even calling first. It seemed a little excessive. "Why are you here?" he asked. She smiled at him then, and reached into the pocket of her jeans to pull out a set of keys. Dangling them by the ring from her index finger, she held them out to him. For a moment he stared at them without understanding what she could possibly mean by them, then he recognized the whistle and snatched them off her hand. "Where did you get these?" he asked harshly. "If it was at that site, shouldn't they be in evidence or something?"

"That's kind of hard to explain," she said. "And they weren't at the site. I have no idea where they were, to be honest. They were . . . given to me."

John stared hard at her. "By who?" he demanded.

"That's the part that's hard to explain," she replied evasively. Shoving her hands into her pockets, she rocked back on her heels. "I'd really like to see Dean."

He glowered down at her. "Like I said, he's asleep, and we don't wake him if we can help it." John examined the keys in his hands, looking for some sign of trouble, any hint of danger. "He needs his rest."

"I'd imagine he does," Hanadarko said quietly. Her tone made him look up, and her eyes were sober. She seemed awfully mercurial, but he didn't doubt her sincerity.

A clicking of paws sounded, and John turned to see Lucy coming into the room. "Lucy, go on back upstairs," he said, but the dog ignored him, walking over to sniff Hanadarko carefully.

Hanadarko squatted instantly and spoke to the dog. "Hey there, Lucy, how ya doing?" She was apparently familiar with dogs, because she waited until Lucy's examination was over and then started scratching an ear. "You are a pretty girl, aren't you?" Lucy's tail started wagging, and John caught himself thinking that if the dog liked her, she had to be okay.

Shaking himself, he said, "I don't know when Dean's going to –"

"Where'd she come from?" Hanadarko asked, interrupting him.

"What?" It seemed like a complete non sequitur, and he couldn't figure out why she was asking.

"The dog," she said, rising after giving Lucy a final ear-scratch. "I'd be willing to bet you fifty bucks that this dog appeared sometime soon after my phone call with Dean the other night, when he flipped out."

Lucy nuzzled John's hand and then went upstairs. "How do you know that?" he demanded.

"Because . . ." She paused, looking uneasy. "Look, do you know a guy with dark hair and big baby blue eyes who wears a trench coat?"

John swallowed, his mouth gone dry. "Why?"

"Well, he showed up at my place shortly after I hung up with your friend Bobby, ready to smite me or something. Then he figured out I wasn't a threat and left again." John didn't know what to say. He had trouble imagining Castiel ready to smite anyone. "I even shot him, because he just showed up out of nowhere and got all up in my face. Not that it seemed to faze him any."

"You _shot_ Castiel?" John exclaimed. If he hadn't seen the angel perfectly hale and hearty since then, he'd have been more worried, but he found the entire idea extremely disturbing.

"Is that his name?" Hanadarko asked, nodding. "Well, a little while later, he showed up again, all friendly with my dog, and he apologized. Then he asked me a bunch of questions about Gus, if I found him soothing, if he helped me with nightmares, and the way he talked about it, he was really there about the dog, if you take my drift."

"You're saying that Castiel showed up at your house to talk to you about your dog?"

"Weird, huh?" Hanadarko said. She started moving around, looking at things on shelves and generally fidgeting. "So I told him yes and that Gus wakes me up out of nightmares sometimes, and he left again."

"You seem awfully calm about having a visitation from an angel," John observed.

"I know," she replied, and she turned around after a moment. "See, it's not my first one. I have an angel that comes to see me from time to time. He showed up after Castiel left the first time in a tizzy because Castiel is some kind of soldier angel, and Earl thought he might have hurt me."

"Earl?" John repeated, feeling a little stunned and not altogether certain this woman was sane. Then he fiddled with the keys in his hand and knew something was going on beyond the normal. "Your angel's name is Earl?"

"I know!" she said, eyes widening with exasperation. "How is it I get an angel named Earl and you guys get one named Castiel? That's a way more angelic-sounding name."

"Let me get this straight, you have an angel named Earl visiting you?" Hanadarko nodded. "Why?"

"That's kind of a personal question," she said and returned his question like a volley. "Why do you have one visiting you?"

"He's here to protect Dean," John replied, a little puzzled by her claim that it was personal. Why did she have an angel? Why did he believe she had an angel? The keys in his hands were no guarantee, nor was Lucy's apparent acceptance of her. Nevertheless, he believed her.

"From a serial killer?" Hanadarko asked, looking startled.

"How much do you know?" John asked, not sure what her angel might have told her.

"About what?"

"About this case, about what's going on?"

"I know that Dean was abducted last September, that the guy holding him killed a bunch of other people in the meantime, that Dean was tortured – but not how, exactly – and that when I caught the case regarding the site where Dean was held, Earl told me to steer clear of it."

"Earl . . . your angel."

"Yup."

"Told you to steer clear of this case."

"Yup."

"And yet here you are."

"Not so good at following orders," Grace said, and John's eyebrows rose. "Besides, I wanted to get Dean's keys back to him, and I kinda like the kid."

"So you don't know anything about the . . . 'The Occultist' . . . then?" He hated that name, but it would have to do.

"I know he's a bastard who likes killing guys who never did him any harm, and I know he hurt the hell out of Dean. Beyond that, no, I don't know a thing."

John shook his head, certain now that she had no idea about the demon and certain also that she shouldn't be told. "Your angel was right. You should steer clear."

She took a step towards him and gazed earnestly into his eyes. "Look, I just drove up from Oklahoma to see Dean and give him back his keys. Is that so terrible? I want to see a friend who's been through hell and maybe offer him what comfort I can."

"You met him once," John pointed out, exasperated by this intense reaction.

"Yeah?" Hanadarko said, shrugging. "So? Your kid makes a powerful impression, and he makes it quick." John found his resolve weakening, but he'd be damned if he'd wake Dean up for this. Even if he let her see him, it would be after Dean woke up on his own.

Ellen appeared in the kitchen doorway, and they both turned. "Hey, Little Feather, did you bring someone with you?" she asked.

Hanadarko went to the door and jerked it wider open to reveal a dark-haired woman with glasses. She was just as tiny as her friend, and very pretty. "Rhetta, I told you to stay in the car till I'd scoped things out."

"It's been more than an hour, Grace. I slept for a while, but I had to . . ." She turned and saw John. "Hello," she said with a disarming smile.

John stared at her for a moment, then nodded at Ellen who left, shutting the door behind the newcomer. "You must be the 'pinky swear' best friend Dean mentioned."

Her smile broadened with amusement. She put out her hand and advanced towards him. "Hello, I'm Rhetta Rodriguez."

John couldn't help giving her an answering smile as he shook her hand. "John Winchester, it's a pleasure to meet you."

"You're Dean's father?" she asked, gazing up at him. John nodded. "I have kids of my own, so I can't even begin to imagine what you're going through."

John didn't quite know what to say to that – she didn't seem nearly old enough to be a mother – but it didn't matter. Hanadarko didn't give him a chance. "Rhetta, the angel gave Dean a dog," she announced.

"Seriously?" Rhetta exclaimed, sounding excited.

"I don't know that Castiel gave Dean the dog," John said. Clearly these two really were old school best friends, sharing every secret. "She just showed up that morning." In Dean's bed, and they'd bonded instantly. John decided that he needed to have a talk with Castiel about his high-handed behavior.

"The morning after he asked me all about Gus," Grace pointed out.

"Castiel?" Rhetta repeated. "Dean's angel's name is Castiel?"

Before John could even speak, he heard the squeak of the steps behind him, and Sam came trotting down the stairs. "Dad, what's going on? Dean's asking –" He broke off when he got far enough into the kitchen to see that John had company. "Hello."

John grimaced. "Sammy, these are Grace Hanadarko and Rhetta Rodriguez," he said. "Ladies, this is my younger son, Sammy."

Sam walked forward showing every evidence of his early training in manners. "It's Sam," he said, shaking hands with each woman. To Hanadarko, he said, "It's good to put a face to a name, detective."

"Call me Grace," she said.

"What's going on, Sam?" John asked, well aware that the correction had been as much for him as for their new acquaintances.

"Dean's asking about dinner, and I didn't know what we were going to do since he pretty much slept through all the take-out hours. I could go out to the RV and put something together."

"Why don't you do that," John said, and he looked at their guests. "Ladies, have you eaten yet?"

"It's been about three hundred miles since then," Grace said, glancing at Rhetta.

"Why don't I give you a hand, Sam?" Rhetta suggested.

Sam glanced his way and John nodded slightly. "Sure, the RV's out the back." He led her off, leaving Hanadarko alone with John again.

"I guess Dean's not asleep anymore," she said with a raised eyebrow.

John shrugged. "I guess not. Well, Lucy likes you, and I don't think Ellen will object. Come on up."

* * *

Rhetta looked up at the young man whose head nearly brushed the ceiling of the RV. "So, you and your brother, you're really close?" Unaccountably, Sam flushed and sort of shrugged. "Well, Grace said he talked about you a lot, and before they left he told me you were a genius and would be interested in my line of work."

This made Sam look even more uncomfortable. "I was . . . I was kind of a jerk in college," he said finally. "But yeah, we're close."

"Ah," Rhetta said. "You hit that phase."

"Phase?" Sam repeated.

"Something a lot of guys go through, anywhere between twelve and thirty, where they turn into raving jerks."

Sam blinked at her and nodded. "Yeah, that sounds about right," he said.

She smiled and started chopping vegetables. "You know, you are really tall," she said.

"I kind of shot up in college."

"Is your brother as tall as you?"

"No, Dad and Dean are about the same height. I'm not sure where my height comes from. I don't know any other family besides Dad and Dean."

That sounded like a sad situation, but Sam didn't sound sad about it. Very matter-of-fact, actually. She contemplated probing further, but decided not to. Silence fell for a few minutes, and they both worked on putting dinner together. For such a young man, he had a strong grasp of healthy eating. He was prepping the chicken, and she was prepping the veggies for stir fry.

"It must have been terrible," she said after a while. "For all of you. I can't imagine what it would be like knowing one of my brothers was with a serial killer, or even that he had been with a serial killer. I mean, that sort of thing doesn't happen to real people. Or, rather, it does happen to real people, the people who get attacked are real people, but . . . it doesn't happen to real people." She was being her usual articulate self. Fortunately, it didn't seem to matter.

"I get what you mean," Sam said.

"But you guys found him, you and your dad." Sam nodded, once again looking uncomfortable. "That's just amazing. I can't believe the cops just blew you off like that."

"I didn't see the cops – Dad talked to them before he came and got me."

"Still, they blew him off, right?"

"Yeah, but . . ." Sam shrugged. "What would you think if some guy told you that his twenty-six-year-old son was missing, a guy with no fixed address, no job, and all he'd left behind was an old car?"

She looked at him over her glasses. "I'd tell Grace, and Grace would take one look at the car and say that he'd been kidnapped."

He smiled at her. "I believe you would," he said, and his eyes shone with sincerity. Then he turned back to his chicken. "But why would looking at the car tell Grace anything?"

Rhetta laughed. "Grace is way into cars," she said. "But not just any car. She's into cars with personality."

"I don't get that," Sam said. "A car's a car. I mean, I know Dean loves the Impala, but for me it's just that thing we drove around in when I was a kid."

"Well, Grace's car is named Connie," she said.

"Dean hasn't named the Impala, unless you count the fact that he calls it his baby."

"Oh, I imagine he calls _her_ his baby," she said with sly grin, and Sam rolled his eyes. "That counts."

"Have you named your car?"

She grew thoughtful for a moment. "I don't think you name minivans," she said, and gazed at him solemnly until he started laughing and she joined in. "But my husband calls his truck 'bastard' now and again."

"You're married?"

"Yes!" she said, and she dried her hands off before digging her wallet out of her purse and flipping to her photos. "Here, this is my husband, Ronnie, and these are my kids. That's my daughter Mae and my . . ." She noticed that he was smiling that fixed, polite smile that shouts louder than words. "And you're just a little too young to be real interested in looking at photos of someone else's kids."

Sam's eyes met hers, chagrined. "I'm sorry, was it that obvious?"

"Only to someone who is actually aware that she shows her pictures way too often and easily," Rhetta said, and his face crinkled into a grin. He had the cutest dimples. "But you'll want to see the picture of Holy Cow."

His eyes widened. "What?"

"Holy Cow," she said, flipping through the album to find the photo. "She has the face of Jesus on her side."

"What?" he said again, and she finally found the picture. Turning to show it to him, she saw his eyes go even wider. "That's photo-shopped."

"It is not," she said defensively. "She lives in my barn, and she looks just like that. Grace picked her up at a livestock auction."


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter 22**

Sam stared at the photograph, shaking his head. "Seriously, the cow actually looks like that?" he asked. The woman seemed entirely sincere, and she didn't seem the type to lie over something like that.

"Cross my heart and hope to die, stick a needle in my eye." Sam had never heard an adult say that whole thing, and he found it somewhat startling, especially since she really did cross her heart. Grinning up at him, she added. "We think it's a sign from God."

"From God?" Sam repeated incredulously.

"Well, maybe not from God directly, but a sign from Earl, at any rate."

This seemed even weirder. Maybe she wasn't a liar, maybe she was just crazy. "Earl?"

Rhetta looked up at him. "Grace's angel. I wouldn't even mention him, but I know you've got an angel, too."

Stunned, Sam didn't even try to dissemble. "He's Dean's angel. I don't have an angel."

"Right," Rhetta said. "That's what I meant. You've got an angel hanging around. Have you seen him?"

"Sure," Sam said. "He helped us rescue Dean. But . . . how do you know about him?"

"He came after Grace on the night of the phone call," Rhetta replied. "All ready to smite her until he figured out she wasn't a threat."

"Cas?" Sam said, staring. "Ready to smite her?"

"Dreamy guy with dark hair and blue eyes, wearing a trench coat over a suit?" Rhetta asked.

"Um . . ." Sam shook his head. "I don't know about dreamy, but the rest is right. But I don't . . . oh, wait, you mean the night Dean freaked out while he was talking to her?" Rhetta nodded. "He might have misunderstood, I guess, but I've never seen him like that." Sam considered that statement. "On the other hand, I've almost always seen him when Dean was there."

"How is he with Dean?"

"Soothing, friendly and awkward. But he's pretty much always awkward. Not very well socialized, you know?" Sam's eyes caught the photo of the holy cow, and he remembered the genesis of this conversation. "So, you think Earl sent Grace a cow with the face of Jesus on it? What kind of an angel is he? Pratfalls and stunts?"

Rhetta gazed at him for a moment, then closed her album and stuck it in her purse. "I'm not sure I should say," she said, and she returned to chopping carrots and celery. "It's kind of private."

"Oh," Sam said, kind of surprised by the sudden withdrawal. He hoped he hadn't offended her. "Castiel is a soldier."

Rhetta looked up and nodded. "Yeah, that's what Grace said Earl told her." She pursed her lips. "Earl is kind of . . . he's like a counselor."

"A shrink?" Sam interpolated.

"Shh!" Rhetta hissed, just like she thought anyone could hear them out here. "Don't say anything like that to Grace, or tell her I said he was like a counselor. She'd freak out and make Earl's life a living hell."

"Earl's life?"

"Well, she's kind of . . . she's angry, and she doesn't like being interfered with."

"Does Earl interfere with her?"

"He encourages her to do the right thing and discourages her from doing the wrong things. You know."

"That doesn't sound half bad," Sam said, thinking of some of his decisions over the past few years. Of course, if someone had come up to him and told him the right path to take, he probably would have growled at them and taken the wrong path just to spite them. "But I can see how she'd get upset," he said.

"For example, Earl told her to stay away from this case, even back before we knew what case it was, when we just had a building and no bodies."

"He did?" Sam said. "Why?"

"He said it was dangerous."

"He's not wrong," Sam said. He'd moved from slicing chicken into strips to chopping garlic and ginger. "It's really, really bad. I mean, it's a good thing Grace is out of it."

"Grace is an amazing cop," Rhetta said, feeling slightly defensive. "She faces danger every day."

"Not this kind of danger," Sam replied, shivering.

"Look, I can see how a serial killer would freak you out, but that's what cops do. I mean, I don't like the idea of her going after some crazy psychopath with a knife, but –"

"It's not that simple," Sam said, finding the images her words called up disturbing. The dreams hadn't disturbed him for weeks, but they were all too easily called to mind. He realized belatedly that his tone had been a little harsh, but she didn't seem intimidated.

"I don't understand," Rhetta said, tilting her head.

Sam grimaced. "He's not a psychopath, he's . . . he's a demon." She didn't respond for a long moment, and he just knew her next call was going to be for the men in the white coats. "I know how crazy that sounds," he added, turning towards her, but she wasn't looking incredulous or disdainful or like she thought he was insane.

"No, I'm Catholic, I believe in demons, I just . . . you mean a real, honest-to-goodness demon? Like in _The Exorcist_ demon?"

"Yeah," Sam replied, knitting his brows. "Sort of – you know – without the split pea soup. He looks like any normal guy – in fact, he is a normal guy. The guy the demon's possessing isn't responsible for any of this, though he'll go down in history as a serial killer."

Rhetta seemed disturbed by this. "How do you get a demon to leave you alone? I'm assuming it's kind of hard to arrest them and put them in prison."

Sam snorted. "Kind of," he agreed. "There's exorcism, but that just sends them back to Hell," he added. "But they can come back up, find a new host and start over. I've been researching to see if there's a way to kill them."

"How can you kill a demon? They're eternal."

"I don't know. Nobody knows how to kill a demon. Nobody's ever killed a demon – at least nobody who ever wrote it down. And it's really hard to find anything legitimate these days, what with all the Dungeons & Dragons, fantasy novels, horror movies and MMORPGs out there."

"Where would you find legitimate stuff on how to kill demons?" Rhetta asked.

Sam shrugged. "Bobby's got some books by a French arcanist from the fourteenth century that look promising." He turned around and opened the book carefully on the table.

Rhetta peered around him. "My goodness! That's incredible. What language is it in?"

"Parts of it are in Old High French, parts are in Latin, and there's a few bits in Greek."

"You read all those?"

"I've studied Latin since I was a kid, I took French in college, and I've got a dictionary for the Greek." He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "If there's a way to kill that monster, I'm going to find it."

"I'm sure you will," she said, giving him a look that made him feel ten feet tall. "But we'd better finish up dinner."

* * *

Grace followed John up the stairs. It seemed odd, somehow, to find a convalescent staying in a bar, but this seemed a comfortable, homey kind of place, and clearly someone did live here. "Who's Ellen?" she asked, and John paused at the top of the stairs, turning slightly.

"What?"

"You said 'Ellen wouldn't mind.' Who's Ellen?"

"You met her. The woman at the bar. Ellen Harvelle. She owns the place."

"She your girlfriend?" Grace asked.

John had turned away again, but he looked back down at her. "Just a friend," he said solemnly. "I'm a widower."

Grace nodded, and he went on up the stairs. She went after him, a little stunned by his pronouncement. If she recalled correctly, the man had been a widower for over twenty years. It seemed a long ass time to stay that attached. He led her down a hallway till there was only one door. She put a hand on his arm and held him back, putting a finger to her lips. He watched, clearly puzzled as she edged forward. Then she gave her best war whoop and ran inside. Dean was sitting up on a bed, so she hopped on and bounced, still whooping.

While Dean was still staring at her in befuddlement, Grace surged forward and kissed him by way of a thorough greeting.

* * *

The high-pitched Indian war whoop caught Ellen by surprise. Half a dozen hunters started from their seats and looked up in alarm. "What the hell was that?" Whittier exclaimed.

"Calm down, it was probably just Princess Little Feather," Ellen said, raising her voice a little.

"Who?" Marvin asked.

"Friend of Dean's, nothing to worry about."

Whittier grinned and nudged Marvin. "Hope he has fun, the lucky bugger." Marvin snorted.

* * *

Lucy took exception to Grace's impetuous entrance, jumping to her feet on the bed and barking at the intruder. Grace came to a stop on her knees, allowing the bounce of the mattress to subside. Dean seemed equally stunned by her appearance and by his dog's reaction to it. "Sorry, girl," Grace said, and Lucy's barking stopped immediately, followed by a short, sharp, offended yip. Grace blinked at her. "There's no need to get snippy about it," she said.

This seemed only to increase the dog's sense of affront. "Lucy, it's okay," Dean said. "This is my friend Grace."

"Oh, she likes me fine, we met downstairs," Grace said.

Lucy gave Dean a lick on the hand, then directed another offended yip at Grace before hopping off the bed and stalking out of the room, right past John who was gazing at them in silent amusement. "Well, I'll leave you two to get reacquainted," he said with a smile and left.

Dean watched his father go, then turned to her with a big ol' grin. "Grace! How are you?"

"Never better. How are you?" She looked more closely at him and saw the bags under his eyes, and the lines that appeared to have been engraved in his face by pain.

"Fine," Dean said, still grinning ear to ear. "How's Rhetta?"

"She and your brother are fixing dinner," Grace replied. "But, you remember when you met her?" Dean nodded. "She was pregnant with her first then, but nobody knew it yet."

"Her first?" Dean asked, his eyes widening. "How many does she have?"

"She has a minivan," Grace replied morosely.

Dean's lip curled in dismay. "Really?" Grace nodded, but then Dean brightened. "How's Connie?"

"She's downstairs," Grace replied.

"She is?" Dean asked, and he immediately got off the bed and started pulling on his clothes.

"Well, I see how I rate," Grace said, watching him tart himself up for her car.

"I didn't know you were coming," he said. "Why did you come?"

"Well, I wanted to see you, and Rhetta did too. Besides, it seems like we've got something in common." Dean raised his eyebrows. "What I want to know is why you rate an angel with an angelic name, and I get an angel named Earl."

Dean's eyes widened as he zipped up his jeans. "Excuse me?" he said in a weak voice.

"Your angel's name is Castiel," she said, and his eyes widened further. Before she could finish, he interrupted her.

"How do you know about that?" Dean asked.

"He came to see me," she said, and his brows drew together in a strange, unhappy expression. "He tried to smite me," she went on, and his jaw dropped.

"He did what?"

"It was that night when I called you, when you flipped out on the phone?" Dean nodded, looking embarrassed. "Well, I guess you alarmed him, what with knocking Sam over and trying to run away –"

"I knocked Sam over?" Dean asked, sounding startled.

Grace decided not to bring up the possibility of concussion that Bobby had mentioned on the phone. "Anyway, Castiel seemed to think I was to blame for what happened, and that I'd done it on purpose."

"What happened?" Dean asked.

"He came into my place, full of righteous anger, and demanded who I worked for. I had no idea he was angel, he's nothing like Earl – for one thing, he's good-looking – and so I ran for my gun, telling him to get out and mind his own business. The next thing I know, he's right in front of me, asking again. When I told him I worked for the Oklahoma City Police Department, he seemed mighty surprised. He called himself an idiot and left."

"My angel called himself an idiot?" Dean asked, seeming perturbed by this.

"Well, I think so. It wasn't exactly clear, but I'm pretty sure he wasn't calling me an idiot."

"He didn't hurt you, did he?" Dean seemed worried and uncertain, like it didn't sound like the angel he knew.

Grace shrugged cheerily. "Nope, he just scared the piss out of me. If anyone did any hurting, it was me."

"What?"

"Well, I tried to hit him with a beer bottle, and I shot him."

"You shot him?" Dean exclaimed his eyes widening. Before she could reassure him that it hadn't done the angel any real harm, he turned away. "Cas!" he called to the empty air. "Cas?"

The dark-haired man appeared out of nowhere in front of Dean. "Yes, Dean?" His eyes flicked to her and then back to Dean, but he didn't address her presence. Grace was staring, stunned. She'd seen him disappear, but seeing him appear, seeing him come at Dean's call, it was a little startling. Unnerving, even.

"Are you okay?" Dean demanded. Before Castiel could answer, he turned to Grace. "Where did you shoot him?"

She pointed dumbly to the lower chest, and Dean started pulling Castiel's shirt out of his pants. The angel was too stunned to react for a moment, so Grace got a good look at his belly and lower ribs before he managed to smooth the shirt down and push Dean away. "I am fine, Dean. That was days ago, and I cannot be harmed by an ordinary gun."

"He didn't even blink," Grace put in helpfully.

"And I frightened her unduly," Castiel added. He gazed at Dean. "Is that all you needed?"

"I wanted to be sure you were okay," Dean said defensively.

The angel's eyes warmed slightly, allowing Grace a glimpse of the deep and abiding affection this Castiel held for Dean. He took the young man by the shoulders in a firm, comforting grip. "I am fine, Dean," the angel said. "She could not have harmed me in any way." Grace felt a little offended by that, but she didn't quite like to interrupt an angel who had almost smited her. Smote her. Smitten? Who had almost struck her down, at any rate. After a moment of silent communication that Grace couldn't begin to read, Castiel released Dean's shoulders and took a step back. A second later he was gone, and he didn't bother using the door.

Dean didn't speak immediately, and finally Grace had to break the silence. "Wow," she said.

Letting out a deep sigh, Dean turned towards her. "Where's Connie?" he asked brightly.

Grace could see that he didn't want to talk about what had just happened, and she was amenable. "Downstairs in the parking lot. Get a sweater or something on. Come on."

Dean pulled off the bathrobe he'd been wearing, and Grace saw dark blood stains on his white t-shirt. They didn't look fresh, but they also didn't look even a day old. "What happened?" she asked.

Dean glanced down and flushed. "I had a little panic attack earlier, opened a few things up." He grimaced and pulled off his shirt to reveal a torso swathed in bandages.

"When are you going after the lost princess?" she asked, raising her eyebrows.

In the middle of pulling on a fresh t-shirt, he stopped and stared at her. "What are you talking about?" She raised her arms in front of her and lurched like the movie mummy from the thirties, groaning, and Dean glanced down at his own body and chuckled. "Sammy's kind of paranoid."

"No kidding. The mummy wrap is kind of a clue."

"He had progressed to just covering the worst spots, but when I managed to open things up today, he reverted." He shrugged and tried to conceal a wince. "I have to believe they'll heal enough not to open up at some point. Otherwise, my brother will be following me around for the next fifty years with bandages. And ointment. And disinfectant."

"Disinfectant?" Grace repeated. "He disinfects you?"

"No, he disinfects every bathroom I might walk by," Dean said with a grin. He pulled on a flannel shirt over his fresh t-shirt. "Come on, let's go downstairs."

Grace followed Dean down the stairs, a little freaked out by the thought that even after six weeks in the hospital, Dean's injuries still hadn't fully healed. She knew nothing at all about what had actually happened beyond the fact that he was cut on. She found herself wondering how extensive the injuries under his bandages were. It wasn't the kind of thing she could ask Dean, though, and she wasn't sure there was anyone else she could ask, except maybe Denson the next time he showed up in Oklahoma City. Asking John or Sam would be tacky, asking Dean would be unkind, and asking Earl would be pointless.

When they got down to the bar, Lucy trotted up, and Dean gave her head a quick rub. He started across the bar, the dog at his heels, but as he headed for the door, John walked over. "Where do you think you're going?"

"Outside, Dad, to look at a car."

"Well, you can't go out like that." He reached out seemingly at random and plucked a coat off the rack. "Put this on."

Dean stared at him for a moment, then snatched the coat and stomped out of the bar, Lucy close behind him. As she left, Grace heard someone yell, "Hey!" Evidently John had grabbed some other guy's coat, and the other guy objected. She figured John could deal with it.

* * *

Dad wasn't wrong, it was chill out here, but Dean didn't need babysat, by God. He walked straight over to Connie, recognizing her lines easily amid the other vehicles. "Looking good," he murmured, putting the coat down on the next car over. "Pop the hood?"

Grace grinned at him and went to the driver's door. A moment later, the hood lockdown released, and Dean reached in to undo the latch, raising the hood so he could look things over. Grace didn't care for her car on her own, but her mechanic clearly loved the car at least as much as she did. The engine was just about clean enough to eat off, and he'd bet it ran smooth. Grace had come around to the end to stand beside him while Lucy examined the car in her own way. "You know, you might should put that coat on."

"It's not mine," Dean said. "I don't want to chance bleeding on it."

"Are you bleeding now?"

"No, but if I have a panic attack, I might."

"You planning on having one of those?"

"You don't plan on panic attacks," he said irritably.

"You do if you've got any sense of what causes them," she replied, and Dean turned towards her in surprise. She shrugged. "It's not so much that you plan on having one, but that you plan on being prepared for one if you know you're going to be in a situation that might trigger one."

"Exactly," Dean said.

"What about looking into the engine of my car is likely to trigger a panic attack?" Grace asked, holding out the coat. Dean huffed low in his throat, but he put it on.

"I also don't want to get any oil on it," Dean remarked, reaching in to pull out the dipstick, but then he realized that he'd failed to bring anything with him to wipe it off with. He seriously needed to pull it together.

"I checked her oil before I set out," Grace said mildly. "And I'll check it again before I go back." Lucy came around the front end again and hopped up, putting her feet on the bumper and peering into the engine compartment. Grace snickered, and Dean gave his dog a quick scratch on the ear.

Dad arrived about then, and Dean grabbed the cloth he had in his hand. Obviously Dad's brain was working, even if his wasn't. Dean pulled out the dipstick, wiped it off and then put it back in. He lost himself in evaluating the car's state. There was pleasure in using skills he'd honed over years, skills that had nothing whatsoever to do with hunting. Lucy dropped down to sit beside him, leaning against his leg, and he paused to stroke her head. Grace hovered, watching him, and so did Dad. Dean ignored them both, except when he commented to Grace on some shortfall in maintenance.

He was about finished when a yell from behind made him whirl. "Dean! What are you –" Sam, carrying a foil-covered bowl in his hands, strode across the lot, weaving around poorly parked cars and trucks. "Where'd that coat come from?" he demanded, shoving the bowl and attendant potholders into John's hands. "It's nowhere near heavy enough if you're going to be out here for any length of time. And are you wearing your thermals?"

"Sammy, you're overreacting," Dean protested, evading his brother's hand on his arm. "Rhetta, hi!" Rhetta had followed Sam over, and she was looking on with wide eyes. She held a bowl in her hands, as well, a smaller bowl. Lucy immediately hurried over to check her out. Rhetta saw the dog and squealed.

Shoving her bowl into Grace's hands, she squatted and greeted Lucy at her level. "What a pretty girl you are," she exclaimed, kneading Lucy's ears. Lucy licked her on the nose, and she giggled, looking up. "Hey there, Dean. Dinner's ready." She stood back up and took the bowl from Grace. "Why don't we all go inside?"

That was an easy suggestion to accede to, especially since Sammy wasn't making it. He looked ready to drag Dean back inside by the hair. Dean tried to take the bowl from Rhetta, but she shook her head and gave him a gentle shove with her shoulder. "Go on, kid, before your brother busts something."

Grimacing, Dean put his hands in the pockets of his borrowed coat. "Grace, you need to get your tires rotated."

"Yes, Dean," Grace said in a voice brimming with laughter.

He gave her a sidelong look. "Your siblings ever do this crap to you?"

Grace glanced back at Sammy, who was now haranguing their dad about letting Dean go outside in this weather. "Not really, but nothing like this has ever happened to me."

"Thank God," Dean said fervently, the image making his heart race a little. "You shouldn't be here, you know. It's not safe to be around me. I can't make them leave, no matter how hard I try, but you and Rhetta should go home."

"We are going home," Rhetta said, then she added with a smile, "but do you mind if we eat first, and maybe visit awhile?"

Dean sighed. "I guess," he said, giving her a sidelong look. "How's the family? I hear you've got a minivan."


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter 23**

Ellen ran everyone out at two in the morning. She had guests upstairs, and even though they weren't here to see her, she felt odd not being up there. Besides, there were only four guys left by then because the Winchesters had stayed upstairs long enough that their devoted fans didn't feel like sticking around. Weird ass situation, she thought, but looking in the till, she reflected that she might be able to take a European vacation if the Winchesters stayed awhile longer.

Right after Grace and John went upstairs, Lucy had come downstairs. Initially, Ellen thought she was just jealous of her master's visitor, but her behavior didn't seem to suggest that. She'd wandered through the bar, sniffing all and sundry, not missing a single soul. One guy made to kick her away, but before Ellen could even speak, Dwight informed the transgressor that the dog belonged to Dean Winchester and that he might want to think twice before acting like a bastard. Most of the guys seemed entirely tolerant, and a few even offered her caresses. Then Dean had come down and Lucy had gone with him and that Oklahoma police officer out to see a car, presumably hers.

"Good night, Dwight," Ellen said, pushing her last customer out the door so she could close it. "See you next time."

"One more for the –"

She shut and locked the door on his thoroughly illegal request, then turned back to Jo. "We can clean up in the morning," she suggested, and Jo seemed willing. They went upstairs together to find John standing in the hallway, looking lost.

"What is it, John?" Ellen asked.

He gave her a helpless look. "Sam appears to be pouring his heart out to Rhetta, and Dean is having a heart to heart with Grace. I don't seem to fit into either situation, and I have no idea where Bobby's gotten to."

Ellen glanced into the dining room and saw Sam and Rhetta gathering up the dishes from dinner while he talked earnestly and she listened with a sympathetic expression. "Where are Dean and Grace?"

"They shut themselves up in the room he was napping in earlier," John replied.

Jo gave both of them an irritated look and slipped past them into the dining room where she started helping Sam and Rhetta with the dishes.

* * *

Dean didn't mind snuggling in next to Grace. She was sensual and sexy, but she could be entirely cuddly, too, and cuddly was more his speed at the moment. It also didn't seem to perturb Lucy nearly as much as the bouncing had. He sat on the bed, against the headboard, between two lovely ladies who weren't even jealous of each other.

"So, how are you feeling, really?" Grace asked. "And I don't mean physically."

Dean sighed and leaned his head on her shoulder. "I don't know," he said after a long moment. "Wrecked, I guess."

"Yeah?" Grace said, not offering pity, not telling him it was normal, not uttering platitudes. It made a nice change. "How so?"

Dean snorted. "For one, I can't stand for my little brother to be out of sight for more than an hour or so."

She didn't say anything for a second, then she cleared her throat. "Your brother and not your dad?"

"Dad can take care of himself," Dean said without thinking, then bit his lip.

"Sam can't?" Grace asked. Her tone was neutral, totally lacking in judgment.

"I don't honestly know. It's been years since we spent any time together." Years since Dean had seen his brother in a critical situation. She'd actually brought up an important point that Dean would have to think about later. "But it doesn't really matter. I . . ." He shrugged. "I raised that kid. Mom died when I was four and Dad took us on the road. Sam and me were it."

"That must have been rough."

"Sometimes. Mostly it just was." Dean shook his head. "I barely knew anything else, and I knew . . ." He trailed off, realizing suddenly that he couldn't tell Grace that he knew his father was a hero. He couldn't explain why, and without the facts, it would just sound lame.

"You knew what?"

"I knew my Dad was just doing what he had to do," Dean said. He contemplated the ups and downs of his childhood and sighed.

"So are you afraid this guy will come after Sam, is that it?" Grace asked. Dean's heart skipped a beat and then sped up. Images began to swim in his mind, memories of Azazel telling him that he'd grab Sammy if he didn't obey instantly. With an effort he kept the hysterical fit from developing past a mild bout of hyperventilation, but when he came to himself, he was curled into Grace's arms, his head tucked under her chin. She stroked his back gently, murmuring apologies over and over again.

"It's okay, Grace," he said, and his voice sounded oddly hoarse. He cleared his throat. "Sorry you had to see that."

"No worries," Grace replied. "Sorry I set it off."

Dean grimaced. "You . . . you couldn't know," he said, resisting what was almost a physical need to go check on Sam. He had to get past this. Grace was gazing at him with her eyebrows raised. Dean swallowed. "The bastard regularly said he'd go get Sammy, that he'd do to him what he'd done to me."

"Oh, damn, sorry," Grace muttered. "You okay now?"

Dean gave her a smile, and her eyes lit a little. "Yeah, mostly," he said, amazed that he'd managed to keep from leaping off the bed to search Sam out. He chuckled. "Hell, this is probably the closest I'll get to a woman from now on."

Grace gave him a disbelieving look. "What's that supposed to mean?"

He stroked down the front of his t-shirt self-consciously, aware of the bandages. "You haven't seen what I look like under all this," he said. "No woman is ever going to want to have sex with me once she's seen the pictograms carved all over me." He shuddered. "Except the really sicko, weird ones, and I don't want anything to do with them."

She gazed at him for a long moment, then leaned in and gave him a lingering kiss. When the kiss had ended, she didn't move back. Eyes locked to his in an intense moment of communication, and she said, "I promise you, I'll be coming back to take up where that left off." She licked her lips. "Just as soon as you're up to it."

He shook his head weakly. "Grace, you can't know . . ."

"It doesn't matter," she said. "Whatever's been done to you has nothing to do with why I want you." Her lips touched his briefly but sensuously. Then she licked his nose and fell back, laughing at his outraged expression.

Dean stared at her, split between amusement and anxiety. Anxiety won, but he wasn't letting it take over. "You want to see a sample of what he did?"

"I thought your brother would freak out if we undid any of his handiwork," Grace asked.

He flushed a little, remembering the whispered suggestions that had led to his confiding that factoid to her. "Those aren't the only spots. The cuts on my leg healed better than the others. Sammy thinks it's because Azazel didn't have the opportunity to give it any of his . . ." The word treatments still gave him the cold shivers. He slid sideways off the bed, ignoring the twinges the movement gave him, and undid his fly. He pulled his pants down to reveal the pinkish scars on his thigh. "The stuff on my torso is more complicated, and some of it seems to be healing with funny colors under the skin."

Grace crawled across the bed and examined his leg closely. Dean had a sinking feeling. If she found it more fascinating than horrifying, he thought he'd go utterly insane. "My God, these cuts are incredibly precise. I've never seen anything like it."

Dean gulped. "He was nuts, thought he was a demon, thought these were spells, so he was extra careful." Though he recognized her interest as professional, not prurient, it still made him uncomfortable. He pulled his pants back up. "What woman is going to want to have sex with a guy who has to wear a shirt to keep from inducing nausea?"

"Dean, you're cute and you're funny . . . when you're not whining."

Dean's eyes widened. "I am not whining."

She gave him a dubious look with a little grin playing about her lips, then she reached out and stroked down his sides, her hands coming to rest on his hips. "And you have an awesome body . . . though you need to get off your lazy ass and get back in shape." As a crowning insult, she goosed him on the butt. He jerked involuntarily, and she winked at him. "Well, fun as this is, Rhetta and I should probably hit the road."

Dean nodded, stepping back so she could get up. "Yeah, and you really shouldn't come back, no matter how tempting that promise was. It's not safe to be around me, and you have no protections."

She laughed, shaking her head. "I can take care of myself." She leaned in and kissed him again, this time a sisterly peck on the cheek. "I'll be back when you're up to a romp." Before he could respond, she opened the door and strode out, calling Rhetta's name.

Dean followed, biting back curses. He wanted to find some way to convince her, but he didn't think a conversation that included Rhetta or his father would achieve anything. He had no idea which side Rhetta would come down on, they didn't know the whole truth, even if they did believe in angels, and his father would go all didactic and authoritarian, and there would be an argument that would solidify her determination. He could just tell that her stubbornness would rival his father's.

"Yeah?" Rhetta said, emerging from the dining room. Dean saw his father standing in the hall, talking to Ellen. Jo and Sam came out of the dining room behind Rhetta.

"Where's Bobby?" he asked. Seeing Sam relieved him, but it seemed odd to him that everyone else was in such close proximity to each other, but Bobby wasn't there.

"He headed out with Zach Garza," Jo said. "Guess Zach has something he needs some information on. He told me he'd be back in the morning."

Dean shook his head. "Zach who? Who's that? Do we know him?"

John nodded. "I know him. It will be fine, Dean."

Aware of startled eyes on him from all sides, Dean relaxed himself consciously. "Right, of course," he said, and looked down at his feet.

"We need to be heading out," Grace said, putting an arm around his shoulders and squeezing gently. "You ready to go, Rhetta?" She nodded and turned to get her purse.

"Thanks for coming out," Dad said, walking forward and shaking Grace's hand. "It brightened the evening for all of us." Grace shrugged and something seemed to pass between them that Dean couldn't read. Sam had followed Rhetta when she'd disappeared, and they came back talking quietly. Dean wondered what they were talking about, but he'd been right thinking that the two of them would hit it off.

Grace took a step towards him and Dean looked down at her. "Please don't come out to see us off, okay, Dean?" she said, patting his cheek. "We wouldn't want your dad and your brother to explode."

Sighing, Dean agreed. As she started to turn away, he caught her arm. "Grace," he started, and clearly recognizing that he was about to tell her again not to come back, she touched his lips gently with her forefinger.

"Hush, Dean," she said. "Take care of yourself, and that big little brother of yours." Dean nodded. Watching her and Rhetta go, he reflected that he'd always tried to take care of Sammy. He'd always tried, and he always would try. Whether or not he'd succeed was anyone's guess.

* * *

John watched the cute little Porsche drive away. He found, oddly, that he trusted those women even though they gave him very uneasy feelings. Women hunting, or fighting, or in danger of any kind always made him a bit uneasy, though he tried not to show it. When they chose to participate in that sort of occupation, they generally didn't appreciate it when members of the opposite sex tried to get overly protective.

He walked back inside to find Ellen wiping down the bar. "I thought you were headed to bed," he said.

"Soon," she replied. "John, why don't you and the boys stay inside? It's warmer, we've got plenty of protections, and it would be more comfortable for Sam to have a bed that's longer than he is."

John could see the validity of that argument, but he wasn't yet ready to give up the comparative defensibility of the RV. The house had a lot of rooms, a lot of doors and windows, and there was no way to see all of them at the same time. He also didn't really know the ground. He didn't know where to find a weapon in every room, he didn't know where the protections were or what they were, and the house wasn't mobile. He couldn't jump into the front seat and drive away if all else failed. "Thanks, but no. I'd better go check on Sam and Dean."

Ellen nodded and dropped the rag on the counter. Evidently she'd just been waiting for him and unwilling – or unable – to stand idle.

John started up the stairs and found Sam and Dean coming down them. The both looked exhausted. "Bedtime, boys," he said.

"No argument here, Dad," Dean said. "Come on, Sasquatch." John backed down the stairs and stepped aside to let them through. As they walked away, Dean kept talking. "How is it you got to be so tall? Dad's not as tall as you. Mom wasn't a giant. I think there's mutant genes in there somewhere."

"It was your grandfather," John said absently, and both of them stopped.

"What did you say?" Dean asked, his eyes wide.

"Sam looks a lot like Mary's father," John replied, not sure why his sons were looking at him as though he'd grown an extra head. "And Samuel was very tall."

"Wait, I was named after my grandfather?" Sam asked.

"Actually, both of you were named after one of your grandparents," John said.

"I thought your dad's name was Henry," Dean said.

"You're named after your maternal grandmother," John said. "Now go to bed."

Sam crowed with laughter. "Look who's girly now?"

Dean gave him a hearty smack in the gut. "Shut up," he growled. "Wait, Mom's mom's name was Dean?"

"Deanna," John said.

"And Sammy here was named after the grandfather he looks like?"

John snorted. "That's a coincidence. It's not like we could tell. I mean, yeah, they were both bald, but beyond that . . ." He shrugged. "Not that old Samuel would have cared."

Sam blinked at him. "Why not?"

"I wasn't your grandpa's idea of a suitable husband for his girl."

Sam looked startled, but Dean grinned. "Go, Dad," he said. "Rocking the bad boy thing, huh?"

John shook his head. "No, Dean," he said with a small smile. "I was an Eagle Scout." Both his boys stared at him with slack jaws. "Why is that so surprising?"

"I guess . . . it's just not how we see you," Sam said, glancing at Dean for an assenting nod. "So, why didn't he like you, then?"

"A couple of reasons," John said with a shrug. "Number one, he didn't want his daughter to marry any man who was stupid enough, or naïve enough, or whatever, to enlist on purpose."

"Wait, you weren't drafted?" Sam asked.

"No." Both boys were still staring at him. "We were in the middle of a war," he said simply.

"Police action," Dean said with the same kneejerk reflex as someone would say 'bless you' after a sneeze.

John gave his eldest a narrow look. "I know a war when I see one, boy," he said, and Dean flushed a little.

"Yeah, but . . . Viet Nam . . ." Sam shook his head, seeming appalled. "That took guts."

"Sam, no one over here knew how bad it was," John said with a grimace. "I was naïve. And stupid. And it was all ultimately pointless. At least with what we do, we know we're making a difference."

Sam nodded slowly, his expression sober.

Dean broke the silence that followed John's remark. "So, what was the other reason?" he asked.

John's lips twisted. "Well, I don't know this for a fact, but since I've learned more about your mom's family, I really think it was because I was a civilian."

Sam nodded, but Dean looked puzzled. "A civilian?" he repeated. "You were a Marine."

"I wasn't a hunter. Samuel didn't want his daughter marrying out."

Dean's jaw dropped, and, too late, John realized that this subject hadn't come up in the weeks since they'd found him. Dean sat abruptly, coming to rest on the steps. Both John and Sam reached for him, but he sat there stunned. He looked up, his eyes seeking his father's. "Mom was a hunter?"

"Yeah, Dean," John said. "I've only known for the last six or seven months."

"But she was . . . she was Mrs. PTA," Dean said. "She made cookies."

"Oh yeah," John said, feeling a bit nostalgic. "Mary loved a good bake sale."

"You've never talked about her much," Sam said.

"Mom was a hunter?" Dean said again.

"Both her parents were hunters," John replied. "She was raised in the tradition."

"So, did Mom hunt after you guys got married?" Sam asked.

"No, I don't think that was what she wanted." He shook his head. "She wanted . . . she –" He sighed. "She wanted you," he said, looking at Dean. "She wanted 2.5 kids and a normal life. She never said anything to me about hunting."

"No one with half a kid has a normal life," Dean quipped, but he still looked a little stunned.

"You made her so happy, Dean," John said. "Way happier than I ever made her."

"Dad," Dean protested, shaking his head.

"No, really, Dean," John said, remembering certain nights that he'd spent in a cheap motel during arguments. "She loved me, but she was happiest with you." More memories started cascading back, memories of better, happier times. Dean's birth and the joy he and Mary had shared, Sam's birth, the wedding . . . "I miss her," he said, and he realized that he was about to cry. "I miss her every damned day."

* * *

The naked truth in that last remark left Dean stunned, and before either he or Sam could formulate a response, Dad turned around and walked away. Sam sank down next to Dean. "That's more than he's ever said about Mom before," he said, and Dean nodded soberly. "Hell, it's more than you've ever said about Mom."

"What do you mean?" Dean asked, giving Sam a puzzled look.

"You never told me she made cookies."

Dean blinked at his brother. "I was four. She was my mom. Of course she made cookies."

"Not all moms make cookies."

"Yeah, they do," Dean replied.

Sam shook his head, shrugging. "Some of them buy cookies."

"Dude, those aren't moms," Dean said. "Those are mothers."

Sam stared at him. "So . . . we had a mom?"

"Oh yeah," Dean said. He sighed. "She was awesome." He dragged himself back up. "Come on, it's time for bed."

* * *

 _Please note: I wrote this long before we saw Mary again and learned certain facts about her housekeeping/cooking. Also, I haven't seen seasons 13 or 14, so please limit any comments to things that won't spoil either season. Thank you, thank you, thank you for reading! Thank you especially for commenting!_


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